Patience
by OpheliaKitt
Summary: He was surrounded in a world of danger where you needed to be patient, but quick to survive…but as every good pickpocket knew, patience was a virtue. His opening would come sometime. And he would be ready for it...
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: Hi you wonderful readers! Welcome to the third story in my "Origins" series covering how Aramis, Athos and now Porthos found themselves as members of the Musketeers! **_

_**If you haven't read the others (Foundation and Orders) you might want to take a peek - there are some minor references to things from those stories - but I think this story stands pretty okay on its own...at least I hope so anyway!**_

_**I really hope you enjoy this and I look forward to hearing your feedback! Cheers!**_

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Patience

Chapter 1

He stood alone at the edge of the practice ring as the other cadets sparred in hand-to-hand combat, but this was nothing new. Sure, there was an unlucky odd number of new cadets to the Musketeer regiment, but it wasn't a coincidence that Porthos was once again the odd man out.

Saying that he stood out from among the others was a bit of an understatement. Porthos was a giant of a man, towering over most of the Frenchmen in the garrison, and retaining a good two inches over the taller of the men. His size was matched by an unrivalled strength – again, unrivalled because so far none of the other men had agreed to step into the ring with him. He was not one of those from a noble family that were mixed among the cadets; he had been handpicked by Captain Treville himself from amongst the infantry, along with a few others.

Porthos had hoped that maybe some of the other common-born men would be friendly if not accepting, but so far he had only been met by apprehension at best and scorn and derision at worst by the other men who were training to become musketeers – not that Porthos had heard them say anything. No one would dare say anything outright to him – no one said anything at all to him actually, other than Serge, the cook. No words were needed though, as the wariness in their eyes said everything.

Perhaps the biggest barrier to Porthos' acceptance by the others and the reason he stood out most among the rest of the regiment was literally skin-deep. Porthos was a black man, and proud. In a country where slavery was immoral, but not illegal, and with many of these noble men having grown up with black slaves, Porthos knew it would be hard to break certain individuals of their ignorance. He knew he would need to prove his worth to these men, which made the others' unwillingness to spar with him – so he could prove himself their equal or better – even more frustrating. But Porthos was patient. You had to be, growing up as he had.

Raised on the streets of Paris, Porthos had grown up as a thief and a pickpocket. His mother died when he was a boy, barely five, and so he had been raised, in a way, by the members of the Court of Miracles – the complex network of the poor, the grifters, the cons, the whores, the thieves, the sick, the psychics and the like that formed the poorest, most vibrant and most difficult area of Paris. Here you needed to be patient, but quick to survive.

It was an interesting education for Porthos. In the Court he learned to trust people to a certain extent, yet to never rely on others. He learned to move as quietly as a cat to avoid detection, and to fight as though his life depended on it – because often it did. He learned about loyalty and betrayal. He learned how to read people, and play people, and to care and protect those weaker than him.

Having lost his mother at such a young age, and to have lived such a difficult life could have hardened Porthos' heart to the world, but perhaps his miracle from the Court was his heart. Despite everything, Porthos heart was, if possible, even bigger than he was.

And he had dreams.

Each day he remained within the Court, his dreams of getting away from there – for bettering his position in life – grew.

As he looked on the other cadets and assessed their skills, taking note of moves that he might have used to counter their attacks, Porthos frowned. Not for the first time he questioned whether Treville had made the right decision to pull him from the infantry. He wondered if he made the right decision to leave his makeshift family of sorts at the Court. He wondered how he would ever earn a commission if the others simply ignored him the whole time. But as Porthos, and every good pickpocket knew, patience was a virtue. His opening would come sometime. And he would be ready for it.

Porthos turned with the others as the clatter of horses' hooves announced the return of some of the Musketeers to their garrison. Four men rode through the gates; at their head rode Athos and Aramis. Treville had introduced these men to Porthos when he had first joined the regiment two weeks before. Of all the men in the regiment, only Athos and Aramis had made any attempt to welcome Porthos.

Well, Aramis offered the same warm greetings that he offered all the men of the garrison, but made a point to speak to him on a regular basis whenever he could. Athos never said much of anything, but to be fair, Athos rarely said much to anyone other than Aramis. Nontheless he was always courteous.

Porthos grinned as he took the reins from Athos; Athos for his part gave Porthos a thankful nod as he dismounted.

"Thank you," he said. "Make sure you stay on his left side. Roger…can be difficult and uncooperative at times."

"Are you talking about the horse or yourself?" Aramis quipped, his handsome face marked by a wide grin, as he joined them having left his own mare with another cadet to groom. Porthos bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from grinning, but he could tell by the glint in Aramis' eye that he was failing. Athos rolled his eyes.

"It seems Treville is headed your way," Porthos said to the men giving them a small smile.

Athos nodded. "Thank you Porthos," he said. Aramis gave him a wink and the two musketeers turned to walk towards the Captain.

oOo

Treville stood on the balcony and looked down at his men sparring below him. He frowned as he saw Porthos standing alone again and observing the others. He could tell by the way that he watched the others, his fists unconsciously clenching as he tracked their movements, that he was eager to get in there.

Treville considered whether or not he should intervene, but stopped himself before he could say anything. No, if Porthos wanted a place among the musketeers, he would need to demand it. Treville knew that Porthos could be equal to any man there, but it would be for him to find a way to prove that, even if that might mean beating the ignorance out of some of them...

Treville looked up as the group of his musketeers rode through the garrison gates. He watched as the cadets broke up to give the four riders room to dismount. Treville descended the stairs, his eyes focused on three men in particular.

"Gentlemen. Report," said Treville as Athos and Aramis turned away from Porthos to join him.

The two men stood at attention in front of their Captain. "We came upon the men responsible for the recent robberies just outside of Rouen," said Aramis as the senior musketeer. "There were nine men in total. Four of which are now in custody at the Chatelet. The others were killed during the altercation."

Treville nodded. "And the goods that were stolen from the palace?"

"Marsac volunteered to return them to His Majesty. Girard accompanied him," said Athos, his blue eyes flashing slightly.

Treville nodded again. Marsac was a good soldier, and one of the senior musketeers, but he was also vain and braggadocios and never missed an opportunity to grasp attention to himself. He knew that Athos didn't have the highest opinion of the man – though he knew Athos would never voice it aloud, at least not within earshot of the Captain. Treville knew that Athos tolerated Marsac more than he wanted to due to both of their close ties to Aramis, so instead, Athos suffered in a near silence interspersed with angry glares and cool remarks.

"Any injuries?" Treville asked, shifting his discerning gaze from Athos back to Aramis. Aramis frowned slightly at Athos before responding to the Captain.

"Nothing of note to report sir, other than the usual cuts and bruises. Pierre twisted his ankle a bit in the skirmish, but I splinted it and he seems to be walking on it fine. Maybe just light duty for the next few days. Hugo took a blade to the arm but we managed to clean and stitch it. There shouldn't be any complications if he keeps it clean," Aramis reported as one of the regiment's medics.

Treville surveyed the two men in front of him for any hurts; both had the tendency to downplay or disguise any injuries of their own, preferring to see their comrades tended to first. "Anything else?" he asked, narrowing his eyes at the two. For their part, neither man flinched or looked away under their Captain's scrutiny as they shook their heads. "Very well. You're dismissed. Serge should be serving dinner soon. There should be time for you to wash up first," he said, acknowledging the weariness the men were trying to hide. It had been a hard few days' of pursuit and battle in the saddle. The two men nodded to the Captain and headed back to their rooms in the barracks.

oOo


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: Thanks to all you lovely readers! I'm going to try to post every other day if i can - but i'm busy with some wedding prep tomorrow, and i couldn't stop working on this, so here's chapter 2!**_

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Patience

Chapter 2

Porthos took his tray with a smile from Serge. The smile grew as he noticed the extra roll the old cook had slipped him and he headed out to the courtyard, taking a seat at the empty table near the base of the stairs.

This table was typically the realm of Aramis and Athos, and was often left empty when they were out on duty. As such, Porthos had made it his refuge of sorts during his solitary mealtimes while they were away.

He was quite startled when Aramis plunked himself down into the seat next to him and began filling three cups of wine. He wore a fresh shirt beneath his long doublet, the decorative lace collar of which was just visible. His blue musketeer's sash was wrapped about his waist as usual and his grey, feathered hat was rakishly perched upon his dark curls, accentuating his half-Spanish features perfectly. Aramis was handsome and charming and had the reputation of being a bit of a casanova. Porthos was shocked by how young Aramis was given his many years in battle – at least two or three years younger than Porthos or Athos were. He gave Porthos a wide grin.

"Honestly, sometimes there are very few things that compare to a hot bath and a good cup of wine," he said as he passed a cup to Porthos. "And when the wine and water don't seem to be quite enough, I typically find the company of a beautiful woman is the answer to anything else that might be wrong."

"Well, I hate to be disappointin' ya," Porthos grinned.

"Au contraire, mon ami, I'm quite glad for your company and conversation," he said as Athos joined them carrying two trays of food. Passing one to Aramis, he traded it for the cup of wine Aramis offered him. He raised his glass to Porthos as he sat across from him.

Athos was dressed in simple, but finely made leathers with a wide brim leather hat perched upon his head. His startling blue eyes were just visible beneath it. He didn't say much during the meal, but countered the steady stream of Aramis' chatter with clever retorts. The two men verbally sparred to make up a familiar and pleasant banter and Porthos found himself drawn into this competition of traded jests.

The differences between these two men were obvious, but as Porthos sat easy in their company, he quickly became aware of some of their similarities and the strong affection and respect that they held for each other. The quips they tossed at each other lacked any kind of heat. It was the wordplay of brothers, and Porthos was startled to be included in it after the past few days of isolation that he had endured. With a final retort from Athos, Aramis erupted into laughter.

Athos stood suddenly as Marsac approached their table.

"Excuse me," said Athos, suddenly stern.

"Athos…" pleaded Aramis. The man paused and looked at his comrade before shaking his head.

"I'll be at the Wren," he said. "Porthos, thank you again for tending to Roger. I saw that you had him groomed well and fed. I know he appreciated the apple you slipped him too," he said as he walked away from the table. Porthos grinned after him.

The grin quickly faded as Marsac approached. He and Athos exchanged a curt grimace as they passed. Reaching their table, Marsac drew a boot up onto the bench that Athos had just vacated. Leaning forward and crossing his arms on his knee he directed his conversation towards Aramis.

"Come Aramis, where are we off to tonight?" he said loudly. "I'm sure I can help you find some pleasant company."

Aramis laughed, "As if I'd ever need your help to find pleasant company. I'm well my friend, why not join Porthos and I?"

Marsac glanced at Porthos briefly before turning back to Aramis, the grin on his face not quite reaching his eyes. "Apologies, my friend, but I'm in search of fairer company this evening…" he said.

Porthos frowned and Aramis scowled at the choice of those barbed words. There was a slightly dangerous gleam in Aramis' eye and a warning in his voice as he replied, "I doubt you'll find any conversation as good as Porthos' but if it's the company of a woman you're seeking I wish you well. Perhaps without me there you might stand a chance."

"Not likely," muttered Porthos to which Aramis roared with laughter. Marsac scowled, his cheeks reddening. With a snort he stood from the table.

"Your loss Aramis," he sneered haughtily and marched away from the table to join a few other men as they exited through the garrison gates.

Porthos stared after them, then dropped his gaze to his hands. "You didn't have to do that," he said quietly.

Aramis glanced at him. "Not sure what you're talking about, mon ami," he said as he refilled their cups with a small grin. Porthos was appreciative of the man having his back, even if he wouldn't acknowledge it as such.

"Now," he said handing Porthos back his glass, "I believe you were telling me about an enchantress you once met?"

Porthos snorted into his wine and continued the tall tale as the man laughed at his side.

oOo

They laughed and joked for hours it seemed, having moved on to a local establishment away from the garrison courtyard. The night grew late, as Notre Dame chimed in the distance and Aramis finally rose from their table.

"Forgive me, mon ami, but I'm afraid I have an appointment to keep," he said with a wink and a grin.

Porthos grinned back. He had had more wine than he intended to, but the kind company, and Aramis' excellent conversation had been a balm for Porthos' recent loneliness. That and the marksman kept buying. He seemed genuinely interested in Porthos and Porthos knew the smiles and the laughter that the Spaniard bestowed upon him were true. He could trust Aramis.

"Who is she?" Porthos replied, his words slurring slightly.

"Porthos!" said Aramis, doffing his hat dramatically and placing it over his heart. "A gentleman never betrays a lady's secrets," he said. He downed the remaining contents of his glass and with a flourish and a wink at Porthos, he replaced his hat and exited the tavern.

Porthos remained in the bar to finish the bottle of wine that Aramis had left him with before he too rose and staggered out of the establishment.

He entered the dark streets of Paris that were once so familiar to him. His years away at war had changed them slightly, but he could still recognize the way the moon fell across certain corners and the difference between the whispers of the wind and the ones of those looking to hide. He could also still recognize the movements of those with violent intentions, like the ones of the dark shapes moving across the alley a few streets ahead of him. It would be his duty as a Musketeer to protect these streets and the innocent. He followed silently.

Up ahead he saw two men struggling up the Parisian cobblestones. One man was half coaxing, half carrying the other who had clearly seen the better side of a few bottles of wine. As Porthos watched, the men were suddenly set upon by the six menacing shapes Porthos had been tailing.

As cries rang out, Porthos didn't hesitate – he sprinted up the street to close the distance. As he reached the skirmish he roared, and ignoring his own sword and the swords of the enemy, he grasped the first two ruffians he saw and slammed them together with so much force that they lay in a crumpled mass at his feet.

The two men had their swords drawn and were doing battle with two of the bandts while Porthos was met by another combatant. The man was tall and broad, nearly of the same size as Porthos. He took a boxer's stance and came at Porthos with two quick jabs. Porthos managed to dodge both and counter with a swing of his own. The man ducked, and was able to bring a fist into Porthos' gut.

Porthos grunted at the impact but was able to turn away and reface his attacker. He ducked under the next blow and was able to bring his fist up under the man's jaw. The man stumbled backwards, spitting blood. He grinned at Porthos wickedly, blood dripping between his teeth and dribbling down his chin. He swayed on his feet, the force of Porthos' punch leaving him slightly rattled, but clearly still eager for a fight. With a shout he threw himself at Porthos, aiming two wild blows that Porthos blocked with his forearms. With a third wild swing the man was off balance – a last punch from Porthos sent him careening away so he landed in an uncoordinated heap in the shadows of a doorstep of the laneway.

Porthos stood sweating and breathing heavily, slightly elated in his victory when a shout brought him back to the present.

"Porthos!" came the cry, followed by the bang of a pistol. Porthos froze. He had forgotten about the last attacker. He turned as the sixth assailant collapsed behind him with a dagger still clutched in his hand.

Porthos' mouth fell open as he turned back to face the shooter.

"Are you alright?" came the concerned voice of Aramis. Porthos swallowed his shock as he moved towards the marksman.

"'M fine. Thanks," he said, awkwardly.

"Thank you," replied the medic as he bent over his companion who was seated on a pile of crates against the wall of a building. "Not sure what we would have done if you hadn't found us. Typically, six men against us aren't terrible odds, but Athos in his current state is…"

Porthos' mouth fell open again as recognition dawned on him. Athos was barely conscious and completely disheveled. He seemed to be very drunk. It was hard to reconcile the bleary-eyed, swaying man with the quiet and disciplined swordsman of the garrison.

"What's wrong with 'im?" Porthos asked, wiping sweat from his brow. A churning in his stomach reminded him that he was probably only a few glasses away from Athos' condition himself.

"He's drunk," said Aramis simply.

"'e hurt?" he asked as he placed a hand on the wall of the building and leaned on it to steady himself and keep himself from vomiting.

"No, not physically…" Aramis said sadly. "I need to get him home. It's just a few streets up," he said, pulling one of Athos' arms around his shoulders and lifting the man from the crates.

Porthos ducked under the man's other arm. Aramis gave him a small smile as they began walking towards Athos' apartments.

"He do this often?" Porthos asked carefully.

"Often enough," Aramis said.

"Why?" he asked again.

"I'm not quite sure," said Aramis, "And it's not my place to pry. He's lost someone close to him. It's been haunting him for as long as I've known him."

Porthos nodded. He knew what grief and loss could do to a person. Something burned inside his chest as he silently swore that if it was in his power, one day he would help this man find peace and move past whatever this pain was that chased him down a bottle. Athos was a good man. Porthos would not see his life stolen by a ghost and a glass.

They stopped in front of the oak front door of a building and Aramis transferred Athos' weight entirely onto Porthos as he fished for a key and opened the door. They managed to get him up the stairs as Athos half fought them.

"Drunk as he is, he still puts up a pretty good fight," Porthos grunted as they finally managed to get Athos out of his boots and doublet and into bed.

"This is nothing," Aramis said, "Usually, I have to get him up the stairs and in bed alone."

Porthos let out a loud laugh that he quickly smothered – though it seemed like it would take canon fire to wake Athos now. Aramis grinned at him as he took a seat next to Athos on the bed. He placed a bucket on the floor and picked up a bowl and a cloth.

"Thank you, mon ami. I can handle him from here," he said, as he tenderly wiped the man's brow with the cool damp cloth from the bowl.

Porthos grunted and made to leave.

"Porthos," said Aramis, causing the man to stop. "Thank you for saving him."

"You saved me," he grunted, embarrassedly from his place by the door.

"That was nothing," replied the marksman. "You're one of us. I'd do anything to save a brother-in-arms," he said earnestly, his brown eyes burning in the dark room.

Porthos felt something begin to burn inside him again as he locked eyes with the marksman. For the second time that night Porthos made a promise, swearing that one day he would earn the right to be called brother by this man.

He nodded his head and left the room with the image of Aramis caring for Athos, for his brother, seared on his eyes as he made his way back towards the garrison.

These were good men, he thought, and he was an excellent judge of character.

oOo


	3. Chapter 3

Patience

Chapter 3

The next morning was a hard one for Porthos – the wine and the adrenaline from the night before were making even the simplest tasks of rising and dressing himself in time for the morning muster seemingly impossible. He hastily swallowed some breakfast as well as the surly mood the wine had left him with and headed out to the courtyard.

To say that Porthos was shocked to see Athos standing at the front of the group, his typical stoic and disciplined countenance back in place as though the night before had never happened, was a bit of an understatement. His eyes widened slightly as he made eye contact with the man. Athos's eyes bore into his own before he nodded slightly. Porthos returned the gesture and took his place at the back of the group of musketeers gathered for the muster, desperately trying to ignore the pounding that was blossoming behind his eyes.

Treville assigned the duties for the day and the cadets were split into two groups. Porthos joined his group and made his way towards the firing range behind the others.

Aramis was leaning on a musket as Porthos and the others drew near. His bright and energetic face was miraculous to Porthos. He was sure the marksman had nearly as much to drink as he had and, by all accounts, the man had spent the night tending to Athos, yet here he was, bright-eyed and buoyant as ever.

Porthos fell into line with the other cadets. On Aramis' mark, they all took aim and fired at the straw targets that were set up at the end of the range. Each pistol shot sounded like a cannon to Porthos. Half the shots missed the targets.

Porthos was relieved to see that his was one that actually made contact – though well outside of the red circle they had been aiming for. Marsac and another musketeer were walking among the cadets offering their input. Neither looked Porthos' way as he reloaded his pistol.

"You made contact, but you're too tense," said a voice at his shoulder, and Porthos nearly jumped. Spinning, he met Aramis' cocky grin. "Just relax and focus," he said, raising his own pistol and firing. The others applauded as the very centre of the target was punctured by the bullet.

"Come now!" called Marsac to the cadets with a proud grin at Aramis, "He wasn't even blindfolded for that one!"

Aramis dropped his head and chuckled before turning back to Porthos.

"Come, show me again. Shooting is as easy as breathing. Just breathe deeply. Focus on the inhale, and pull the trigger on the exhale," he said. Porthos looked at him doubtfully. He had never been much of a shot.

Aramis gave him a reassuring smile. Porthos lifted his pistol.

"Loosen your elbow," Aramis said. Porthos loosened his elbow.

"Now breathe, and fire," he said. Porthos took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. He inhaled again, his eyes staring straight down the barrel at the red, white and blue circles that awaited him. He held the breath for just a second, then pulled the trigger as he exhaled.

"Very good!" cried Aramis, when straw burst forth as the bullet impacted the target. "Well done!" The bullet had buried itself in the space between the innermost red circle and the blue one next to it. "True, it's not a kill shot, but it's much better. You would have only winged him last time, this time, you've at least slowed him down," Aramis said with a grin. Porthos couldn't help but grin back.

"Reload and try again," Aramis said as he moved on to the recruit next to Porthos.

As shooting practice ended and the targets were put away, Aramis called Porthos over.

"Your shooting is improving," he said encouragingly. "But care for your weapons is as important as your aim," he said. He pointed to the seat next to him where a number of pistols and muskets sat, and handed Porthos an oil-cloth. Porthos glanced over his shoulder.

"'sposed to be on stable duty right now," he said.

"By all means, if you prefer stable duty…I just thought I'd thank you again for your assistance last night," he said with a wink. Porthos couldn't fight the grin that came to his face. He gladly took the seat next to Aramis who showed him how to properly clean each weapon as they chatted merrily to pass the rest of the morning.

After lunch, was sword practice. At the command of Captain Treville, Athos and Aramis were called forward for a demonstration. Porthos and the other cadets watched in awe as the two men fought. To Porthos, it looked like dancing.

It was clear that the men were well matched. Athos' excellence with a sword and his exceptional technique was obvious, but Aramis managed to keep pace with him, placing blows with an elegant, though deadly accuracy. Their blades locked, as the demonstration ended and the two men withdrew grinning. With a quiet comment and a clap to Athos' shoulder, Aramis withdrew from the practice ring and took a seat to watch with the others as the cadets picked up their swords.

They had been paired up this time, and Porthos was grateful to have been partnered with an opponent. The other recruit's name was Michel. He had smiled at Porthos a few times, and had even offered him a "Good morning" on the odd occasion. They smiled nervously at each other as they bowed and took their positions.

Michel was pretty good with a blade and Porthos worked to keep up with him. Porthos struggled to wield the blade, but he was strong and surefooted and soon had managed to reverse their positions and push an attack of his own. The blade wavered in his hand though as his blows fell wide of their intended target. Athos stepped towards the two of them.

"Your sword," Athos said simply to Porthos, "it's not right for you. You're off balance," he said. Taking the blade from him, Athos walked towards the armoury. Porthos' brow furrowed in confusion. He looked at Michel who shrugged. A moment later Athos returned carrying a new blade.

"Here," he said handing Porthos a curved schianova. The heavier, broader blade instantly felt more comfortable in his grip.

"Try that again," Athos instructed as he stepped back. Michel and Porthos faced off again, and this time Porthos' strokes fell true. He could feel the shift in his posture with the added weight of the heavier blade and Michel's eyes widened as Porthos' strokes fell with more force than before.

When practice came to a halt, both he and Michel were sweating. "Good job," Michel said with a small smile.

"Thanks, you too," said Porthos, as the man turned to join some of the other cadets and musketeers gathered around the water pitchers. Porthos wiped the sweat from his brow; turning, he spotted Athos standing next to Aramis, a cup in his hand.

"Thanks for that," Porthos said approaching the two. "I could never quite get the feeling right with that other sword."

Athos nodded. "That doesn't surprise me. As I said, you were off balance. A traditional rapier was too light for a man of your size. I'm happy to work with you to improve your technique."

"'Preciate that," he replied. "Never had much use for duelling during the war," he said with a small grin.

Athos' eyes flared and his mouth twitched. Porthos was certain the man was fighting a smile. "No," he said instead. "I suppose the battlefield doesn't quite adhere to the formalities of a proper duel."

Aramis laughed, "That's one way of putting it," he said.

"You two," called Treville from his balcony, "My office. I have a mission for you."

"We best not keep him waiting," said Athos with a look at Aramis. "You did well today Porthos," he said and began to walk towards the stairs leading up to Treville's office. Aramis nodded as he followed.

"Looks as though we won't be able to continue our conversation from last night. If you pass by The Wren tonight, please make my apologies to Mademoiselle Giselle," he said with a wink as he followed Athos up the stairs with Porthos' laughter trailing after him.

Porthos ate alone again that evening, but was startled by Michel as he rose to return his plate to the refectory.

"Some of us were about to head to one of the taverns if you'd like to join us," he said shyly.

Porthos glanced over the man's shoulder to where the other cadets were waiting.

"Come on Michel," one man called impatiently, his arms crossed as he narrowed his eyes at them.

Porthos frowned slightly and shrugged his shoulders. "Thanks," he said giving Michel a small smile, "But I think I'll pass."

Michel frowned too. "I'm sorry. They're not all bad," he said quietly.

"'Preciate it," he said giving the man a small smile. "Maybe next time."

Michel nodded returning the smile before turning to join the others as they headed out the gates.

Porthos returned his plate to the refectory before heading back to his room in the barracks. He was exhausted, but still had the small smile on his face. Things may yet improve for him with the friendly overtures of Michel during practice and the promised assistance of Athos and Aramis to help his swordplay and shooting.

oOo


	4. Chapter 4

Patience

Chapter 4

The next day dawned far easier than the previous one, and Porthos rose early and easily.

He smiled at Serge in the kitchens as he returned his empty breakfast dishes. With a sly look around the almost empty refectory, the old cook slipped him an extra apple which he stowed gratefully as he exited.

He cast his eyes warily around the courtyard as he made his way towards the empty table near the foot of the stairs. He was aware of Athos and Aramis's absence as he took a seat before the muster that morning and idly chewed one of the apples Serge had passed him.

A snippet of a conversation floated his way. The words "He should know his place" leapt out at Porthos as though they were shouted directly at him by the large recruit who stared openly at him with derision in his eyes. Porthos could feel his cheeks reddening but he did not look away from the recruit who sneered in his direction. The others laughed and Porthos felt the back of his neck growing hot.

He attacked the hay bale with gusto during stable duty that morning, and was rewarded for his aggression and recklessness by the horse he was supposed to be tending to. The aggravated beast kicked out, knocking the entire wheelbarrow of droppings across the stable floor causing the other cadets to roar with laughter. When Michel moved to help Porthos, another recruit coughed conspicuously causing Michel to freeze in his tracks. He looked between Porthos and where the others were gathered behind the large recruit from earlier that morning. The man stood in front of the others, his arms crossed, his eyes glaring at Michel and Porthos.

Porthos shrugged his shoulders and shook his head at Michel and turned to begin tidying the mess in the stables. There was no point in them both being outcasts. Michel hesitated; casting a last glance at Porthos, he joined the others as they left Porthos to his task alone – another test of his patience.

The next few days dragged on and Porthos continued through the motions of their training. Again he was partnered with Michel for sword practice, his moves flowing easier with the new weapon. When it was over they stood making awkward conversation over cups of water. Somewhere over his shoulder, more traces of another conversation could be heard.

"What is he even doing here? People like him should be cleaning latrines, not learning to shoot and wield a sword. A mop would be more appropriate. Can you imagine him at court? Before the King and Queen?" said a man, not bothering to keep his voice down.

Porthos spun around and glared at the same recruit that had made those comments before. The large man was named Antoine and he was the third son of a nobleman, which in his opinion, made him better than most of the men seeking commissions in the King's Regiment. His father, of course, would be purchasing his commission once he had completed Treville's inane training ordeal, he constantly lamented.

Porthos could feel the heat rising to his face as he clenched his fists at his side. He wouldn't be surprised if steam had started pouring from his ears. He took a step toward the man, but suddenly found Aramis in front of him, forcing him backwards. He hadn't heard Aramis and Athos return to the garrison.

"It's not worth it, Porthos, not like this. You don't want Treville to kick you out. He's not worth it," Aramis pleaded quietly as he pushed Porthos back towards the barracks as Antoine and some of the other cadets laughed. If rage hadn't been clouding his eyes, Porthos would have noticed that there were fewer men laughing with Antoine than before.

Porthos growled as Aramis pushed him into his room. Roaring he tossed the small stool across the room where it smashed against the wall. He spun on his heel and glared at Aramis who stood with his back against the door, his eyes wide but calm as he witnessed Porthos' anger. Catching the concern in the man's dark eyes, Porthos deflated slightly.

"'m sorry," he mumbled, panting heavily.

"It's quite alright," said Aramis simply, taking a seat on the bed. "I'll replace the stool."

Porthos glanced around the room and realized that he was in Aramis' quarters and not his own; the splintered wreckage of the stool brought more colour to his cheeks.

"Sorry," he said again.

"Again, it's alright," the marksman said. They were quiet for a moment, looking at each other, before Aramis dropped his head and said quietly, "You shouldn't let him get to you, Porthos."

Rage flared in Porthos again. "You shouldn't 'ave stopped me," he growled.

"You should be glad I did!" said Aramis rising to his feet. "What would you have done? Attacked him? It would have been six men to one, and even then, Treville probably would have expelled you from the regiment for attacking a brother-in-arms!"

"Brother!" spat Porthos. "Ha! They all hate me. They all think the way Antoine does – that I don't belong here. Because I'm different!" Porthos could feel tears forming in his eyes as his anger continued to surge. He turned away and slammed his fist into the wall, rattling the cross that hung there.

"They're not all that ignorant. You need to stick it out. You need to stay calm and keep it controlled. You need to show them that you're stronger than they are. That they can't get to you. That you're beyond their stupidity!" said Aramis fervently, grabbing Porthos' shoulder and spinning him around. "I know what you're going through. I went through the same thing! Do you think they're much kinder to the bastard son of a Spanish whore?!" Aramis shouted.

Porthos took a step back, startled by the man's admission.

Aramis took a deep breath and collected himself. "You're good Porthos. One of the better cadets. Don't let them ruin your chance of becoming a musketeer."

Porthos closed his eyes, and tried to control his breathing. He pressed his forehead against the cool surface of the wall. "You shouldn't 'ave done this," he said slowly. "They're gonna turn on you now."

"I'm not worried. I'm quite popular," said Aramis. "One of the perks of having been a musketeer for as long as I have, is you tend to outrank a recruit, no matter who his father is. Though I'm sure a few choice words from me to some of the girls in town would put a serious damper on his social affairs as well."

Porthos barked out a laugh.

"I should go see what's happening," said Aramis reaching for the door. "Take as much time as you need to cool down. Just…be patient, Porthos; keep working and showing the others that you belong here. They'll come around," he said with a small smile as he let himself back out into the hall.

Porthos sat at the small table in the room on one of the two remaining seats. He took in the creature comforts of the marksman – the rich but worn rug on the floor, the few books of poetry and philosophy on the shelf, the small looking glass and cross hanging from the wall and the well-worn bible that sat on the table at the bedside. He poured himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the table, his hand shaking. He lowered his head and let the angry tears fall.

oOo

Out in the hall, Aramis let his anger take over as he marched back out to the courtyard. Athos had dismissed the cadets and was waiting to prevent Aramis from doing something rash.

"Out of my way," he said as Athos stood to meet him.

"By all means, but perhaps it would be better if you took the same advice I'm sure you just offered Porthos," said Athos knowingly, stopping the marksman with a hand out and a raised eyebrow.

"You heard what he said, Athos. That is not the type of mentality we need here. This is supposed to be a brotherhood!" Aramis said, knocking Athos' hand aside as he flung his own in the air.

"I explained as much to the cadets," said Athos, "Before I assigned those that seemed to be the instigators to assist Serge with turning the sty and cleaning the latrines," he said, his blue eyes sparkling. Aramis gazed into the eyes of his brother with his own eyes bright with mischief.

"I'm sure that's not going to go over well with some of the more privileged sons," he said.

"It did not," said Athos with a smirk as he steered the marksman out of the garrison towards his private apartments in town. "So I suggested that they might consider pleading their case before Treville instead."

oOo

"What do you think of him?" Aramis asked later as he and Athos sat in the swordsman's private apartments, a bottle of good wine open between them. "Of Porthos, I mean."

Athos raised an eyebrow at the marksman and sipped slowly from his wine. "I think we haven't seen the extent of his true talent yet. Not in practice anyway," he said thoughtfully, his mind tracing back to his drunken memories of being rescued by a giant a few weeks ago...

Aramis laughed. "That's because the others are afraid of him. Hugo says no one will partner him in hand-to-hand."

"I think he's dangerous…like a powder keg ready to go off," said Athos. "Unlike you and I, Porthos wears his emotions openly right near the surface. He hides nothing. I fear what his anger would look like unleashed."

"I witnessed some of that today. There are matchsticks where once there was a stool to attest to that," said Aramis, running his hand through his hair. "There's something familiar about Porthos. I can't quite put my finger on it. It's just a feeling…or something in his voice…"*

"I know what you mean," said Athos, refilling their cups. "I feel as though we have met somewhere, though I'm certain we haven't. He has the potential to become a great musketeer, but he'll need to control his temper."

"It's not easy, Athos. Trust me. I was there. I know what it's like to be judged based on what you look like or what your parents were," said the marksman staring darkly into his glass.

"You have nothing to be ashamed of," Athos said, catching his brother's eye.

"Neither does Porthos," replied Aramis.

Athos sighed. "No he does not."

"We've got to help him, Athos," Aramis said, his eyes burning.

"We can try," said Athos thoughtfully. "We can help him improve his skills and can help him to tether his anger, but we can't be seen to be showing him any favouritism. Unfortunately, I think that Porthos is going to have to fight for his place within the Musketeers."

"I should have let him kill that recruit then," Aramis snorted.

"Well, beat, maybe, but let's try to stay shy of murder for the time being," Athos replied dryly.

"Of course," replied Aramis. "That wouldn't be gentlemanly," he said, taking a drink from his glass.

Athos raised his glass, but he didn't drink. Instead his eyes darkened as he stared at the man across from him. "What are you planning?" he asked lowering his glass.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Aramis said innocently, refilling their glasses once more.

Athos frowned. "Don't do anything reckless," he said.

"Athos, you wound me," he said with fake affront, raising his glass to Athos once more. "You should know me by now."

"Exactly," said Athos smugly, draining his glass.

oOo

* * *

_**A/N: Thanks to everyone for reading! Your time is super appreciated.**_

_*** Aramis and Athos had unknowingly met Porthos before he was recruited to the Musketeers on the edge of a battlefield in a medical tent in my story "Orders".**_


	5. Chapter 5

Patience

Chapter 5

Over the next two days Athos observed Porthos as he went about his tasks in the garrison. Together they spent some extra time working on his swordsmanship.

Porthos' brute strength was a force to be reckoned with, but Athos was most surprised by the large man's lightness of foot. He approved the way that he determinedly practiced the steps that Athos showed him, having come upon him walking through the moves on his own in a corner of the courtyard.

"You're quicker than you look," Athos said to the man as they returned to the garrison after standing guard at the palace.

Porthos grinned at him. "Had to be growing up. I learned to move quickly and quietly," he said with a shrug.

Athos noticed that Porthos gave the others as wide a berth, as they did him, apprehensive to force himself into the conversations of others. When they shared their meals though, Aramis often had Porthos' big booming laugh ringing out. The sound was infectious and Athos even caught himself chuckling from time to time.

It was on the fourth day that disaster struck.

The cadets had partnered up once again to practice at hand-to-hand and once again Porthos was left out. Suddenly, an all too familiar, reckless voice called out.

"Cadet! This is the third hand-to-hand practice that I've seen you miss," Aramis called striding into the practice ring.

Porthos turned to face the marksman, a look of confusion and slight embarrassment on his face.

Athos' heart sank. "He's going to get himself killed," he muttered and made to intercede. Treville's hand on his elbow startled and stopped Athos in his rescue.

"Is that because you don't need the practice?" Aramis asked. All eyes were focused on the pair of them.

Porthos dropped his gaze to the ground. "I haven't had a partner," he muttered.

"No partner? What, are the rest of you afraid or something?" he said, turning to glare at the other cadets. "What kind of musketeers will you be if you're afraid or unwilling to test each other and better each other?"

"Will no one fight this man?" Aramis asked the cadets. "No? Henri? Marcus?...Antoine?" he said, looking at the large noble born cadets, who blushed and took a step backwards. "I thought not," Aramis said coldly.

"I'll fight you," he said as he turned from Porthos, unbuckling his weapons belt and removing the sash from about his waist. The practice ring cleared and Porthos stood alone, staring open mouthed at the marksman like he had lost his mind.

Athos walked over to Aramis and took his sash and weapons from him.

"Have you lost your mind?" Athos asked him quietly, as though to confirm what the others were thinking.

"Maybe," said Aramis as he removed his doublet, "But at least now he'll get a shot to prove himself."

"By beating you to death? I thought you said you wouldn't do anything reckless," Athos said as he took the doublet from the madman.

Aramis grinned. "Well, if he kills me, at least I'll leave a beautiful corpse."

"Unless he breaks your nose," said Athos.

"I hadn't thought of that…" Aramis said, his face clouding slightly.

"I'll make sure it's a closed casket," Athos said, his lip twitching as he clapped Aramis on the shoulder and walked out of the ring to stand next to Treville.

Aramis strode to the centre of the ring and stood across from Porthos who stared at him with a look of confusion on his face. The two men raised their fists and circled each other.

Porthos brow was furrowed as Aramis coaxed him to take a swing. Porthos did so and Aramis dodged it easily. The marksman came back at the larger man with a punch to the side.

"Don't hold back!" he hissed.

"I don't want to hurt you," Porthos said. Aramis ducked under another blow delivering a jab to Porthos' midsection.

"You won't," he said, "This is your chance. Show them what you've got!" he said, delivering another hard punch to the man's gut that knocked some of the wind out of him.

Aramis stepped back as Porthos regained his breath.

"You sure?" Porthos asked.

"Trust me," said Aramis. "Don't hold back," he said and took another swing at Porthos. The man leapt back out of Aramis' reach and came back at him with a hard punch of his own to Aramis' side.

Aramis grinned at the man and readied himself for the next blow. For the first time in a long time Porthos felt comfortable and in his element. He threw another punch, which Aramis dodged and landed a hard blow to Porthos' jaw, which split his lip and had him stagger back a bit. With a grin he came back at the marksman and delivered two shots to his stomach in rapid succession and one to the man's cheek that had him spin away.

Aramis' cheekbone was cut and a small trail of blood trickled down his face. Hastily he wiped the blood away and came back at Porthos, delivering several blows that the man blocked. Porthos was surprised by the skill and speed with which the marksman fought. He was caught off guard when Aramis slipped around him, delivering a blow to his side before placing him in a chokehold. Without thinking, Porthos threw his elbow back. Aramis groaned and released his hold. He wasn't expecting Porthos' left hook, which sent the man soaring backwards and into the dirt.

It was at this point that Treville stepped in. "Good work Porthos. The victory is yours," he said. "Gentlemen, dismissed!" he called to the onlookers who applauded.

Athos held out his hand to Aramis to help him up. His split cheek had already begun to bruise. Porthos rushed over to them, his face clouded with concern. "Are you alright?" he asked.

"Never better," said Aramis warmly.

"You're not bad for a skinny thing," Porthos said with a grin.

"I prefer the term lean, and I'll thank you for saving some of my pride. You were still holding back," Aramis said.

"Ya well, didn't think the ladies of Paris would be too pleased with me if I did more damage to your face," he said grinning sheepishly to which Aramis laughed. "Sorry about that by the way."

"This? Don't worry about it. I'm sure I can find some fetching creature to help me tend my wounds. Good job Porthos," he said as Michel and two other men approached Porthos and began to congratulate him.

Aramis leaned heavily on Athos as they left the courtyard.

"Really, are you alright?" Athos muttered lowly when they were out of earshot.

"He was holding back, but he still hits like a hammer," Aramis muttered. "I think one of my ribs is bruised."

Athos sighed. "Let me get you cleaned up." He glanced back over his shoulder as he heard Porthos' big laugh.

"Was it worth it?" he asked the marksman at his side.

Aramis too glanced over his shoulder to where Porthos stood chatting happily with some other cadets. "Without a doubt."

oOo

The change that had come over Porthos the next day was remarkable. Treville smiled as he saw the man chatting confidently and animatedly with some of the others, most of whom seemed to have finally accepted him after witnessing the bodily damage he was able to inflict with his bare hands.

Treville shook his head as he recalled the day's events and the brave recklessness that he would always associate with Aramis. The marksman was all skill, swagger and heart – if possible, even more so than when Treville met the cocky young man crossing enemy lines all those years ago.* By challenging Porthos, and calling the others out on their cowardice, Aramis let Porthos prove his value to the others and demonstrate why Treville had chosen Porthos from among the other regular infantrymen. It was still dangerous and reckless, but Aramis' life seemed to be a series of calculated risks.

Aramis' partnership with Athos had benefitted both men and Treville couldn't help but marvel at his own brilliance when he paired the two at the front lines. If Aramis was the heart, Athos was the head. Aramis had helped soften Athos' edges, teaching him the meaning of their brotherhood and how to trust again. Athos was the ally Aramis needed. They pushed each other and both their skills had improved with their partnership. At times Athos was the only one who could temper Aramis' fire, and in Aramis, Athos had found an unwavering loyalty and ally that he desperately needed. They discussed tactics and strategy and philosophy, faith and art and with Athos at his side, Aramis' confidence as a leader grew. As the senior most Musketeer, Treville hoped that one day Aramis might even take his place as Captain. But that was a long way yet, Treville thought with a small grin. There was still a lot of fight left in his old bones.

Treville looked again at Porthos and wondered. It was clear to him that the man had talent. He was eager to see how his skillset and confidence would improve under the guidance of Athos and Aramis. He had witnessed one of the private lessons that the pair had offered him.

"Keep him alive"* Treville had instructed the duo all those weeks before but it seemed as though there was more to it than that. The trio may not have been aware of it yet, but Treville had noticed the ease they had in each other's company. He saw the way they reacted to each other as though they were reading each other's thoughts.

Treville smiled to himself again as he descended the stairs to the courtyard below. If Porthos could form ties to Athos and Aramis, what a formidable team they would make!

oOo

* * *

_**A/N: What a formidable team they would make indeed! Unless something were to happen... Thanks for reading/reviewing/favouriting/following! We're just getting started!**_

_*** i describe Aramis' first meeting with Treville in Orders and delve deeper into their relationship and how Aramis became one of the first musketeers in my story "Foundation"**_

_*** "Keep him alive" was the theme of my "Orders" story and were the instructions that Treville had charged each of them with, including when he first introduces Athos and Aramis to Porthos in his office :oP**_


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N: Thanks for all the great support for this story so far! It's always great to read your responses. You guys are amazing!**_

* * *

Patience

Chapter 6

Aramis was returning from delivering a missive from the King as he rode through the garrison gates. It had begun to rain and the shirt underneath his doublet was soaked. The skies had been clear when he set out so he hadn't thought to bring his cloak with him. He groaned as he dismounted. His bout with Porthos had been two days ago, but his ribs were still sore.

He saw Athos watching him as he handed his reins to the stable boy and went to greet his comrade where he stood sheltered under the overhang of the second floor barracks.

"How are you feeling?" Athos asked casually as Aramis approached. Apparently the swordsman had seen his grimace as he dismounted.

"Exceptionally refreshed," he said with a wide grin as he ran his hands through his damp hair.

"Your ribs are still bothering you," he said simply, but Aramis could still detect the slight reprimand in the statement.

"I'm fine Athos. I'm soggy and a little sore, but it's not even worth mentioning," Aramis said as he placed his arm around the man's shoulders and guided him towards his room in the barracks. "I'll feel much better once I've been able to change out of this shirt." Athos raised his eyebrow but said nothing as they entered the marksman's room.

"You're quite the mother hen, you know," Aramis said with a laugh as he removed his weapons belt.

"You must the see the irony in that statement coming from you," he replied, leaning casually against the wall.

"My "fussing", as you call it, comes from professional concern as your medic," he said as he unbuttoned his long doublet and hung it by the fire to dry it out slightly. "Yours is just –"

"A result of you hiding injuries and pushing yourself to extremes or forgetting you had been stabbed?" he responded.

Aramis' eyes flashed in the mix of mischief, amusement and danger that he had perfected. "That was one time, and if you'll remember correctly, I was a little preoccupied by the musket ball I was trying to extricate from your arm."

"Yes, thanks for that," said Athos dryly, his own eyes flashing with humour. A knock on the door behind them had Athos turning. "I'll just get that, shall I?" He opened the door on Porthos who stood in the doorway with his hands held suspiciously behind his back.

"Porthos!" called Aramis, "Come in!"

Porthos grinned. "Just wanted to drop this off for ya," he said bringing forward a stool he had hidden behind his back as he entered. "I owed ya."

Aramis grinned. "An exceptional replacement! Many thanks," he said as he turned away slightly and pulled his soggy shirt over his head.

A loud hiss had him looking back at Porthos who stood with his mouth gaping. Athos too had his eyes narrowed. Aramis raised his eyebrows and looked down at his torso. A dark purple bruise stained his lower ribs on his right side, while a series of others marked other patches of his lean torso. He shrugged his shoulders and began rummaging in his cabinet for a clean shirt.

"Is that from…Did I do that?" Porthos asked, his eyes wide and full of concern.

"It looks much worse than it is," Aramis said casually, slipping a fresh shirt over his head.

"Aramis…" said Athos, anger obvious in his eyes now as they flashed at the marksman standing in front of him. This was the first time Athos had seen the extent of the damage done from his round with Porthos.

"Don't start. I'm fine," he said, his eyes flashing warningly at Athos as he saw the dour and deflated way Porthos stood.

"Aramis…I'm sorry. Didn't realize I had hit you so hard. You didn't react. Why'd you let me do that?" Porthos asked the marksman dejectedly.

Aramis sighed, "I needed you to show the others what you were capable of," he said. "You did nothing wrong Porthos. Trust me, I've had worse." At these words Athos spun on his heel and stomped out of the room, startling the other two men. Aramis frowned after him; his brow furrowed as his dark eyes filled with concern.

"Is he alright?" Porthos asked quietly.

Aramis ran a hand through his hair nervously before looking back at Porthos. "He's…protective," he said somewhat lamely as he shrugged his shoulders.

"He cares about you," said Porthos admonishingly with a little flare of anger. "You shouldn't have done that. You should have put on a sparrin' vest. This is my fault."

"For the last time Porthos, I'm fine! I'll be dressed appropriately for the next time we spar, but the thought did not register in the moment," said Aramis a little angry himself now as he took a seat at the table. How was it that he was the one being scolded like a child? True, they were both older than he was, but he'd been a soldier longer than either of these men!

Porthos took a deep breath and sat across from Aramis at the table. "Aramis," he said softly staring deeply into the angry dark eyes across from him, "You need to promise me that you won't risk hurting yourself for my sake again. I'm not worth it," he said pleadingly.

Aramis slammed his fist down on the table. "You're wrong. I did what was necessary, and I will not apologize for whatever actions I took. It's time you valued your life and your presence here the way I do. You deserve to be here Porthos and are as worthy as any of us. I will not have this conversation with you again."

"Not sure Athos thinks so anymore," replied Porthos miserably. He dropped his head to stare at his hands to hide any vagrant tears that might dare to show themselves. Athos' good opinion once lost, he feared, was impossible to recover.

Aramis sighed. "I'll deal with Athos. He's just protective. Like I said before, he lost someone once – a brother, I think. It has been hard for him since then."

"How long have you and he been fightin' together?" Porthos asked.

"Would you believe it, hardly more than a year," he said with a slight laugh. Porthos looked shocked.

"But the two of you – you're so close! The way you work together – the way you fight together. I thought for sure you'd known each other for ages!"

Aramis grinned at his surprise. "It certainly feels that way," he said and paused. "When I met Athos…something just clicked. From the first, we just knew each other. We saw something in each other you could say, as though we had been fighting together for a lifetime already. We just…knew what the other would think, would do…"

"He's your brother," Porthos said softly.

"Yes," said Aramis, his dark eyes filling with affection, "In every way but blood."

They were quiet for a moment before Aramis continued. "I believe that God put Athos and I together. Somehow we were meant to find each other. How else could everything have been so familiar? As though I have known him all my life? Our souls knew each other from the moment we met."

He paused and caught Porthos' eye before continuing. "I've had the same feeling about you. As though my soul recognized yours when we first were introduced in Treville's office. I know Athos feels the same," he said seriously. "You are supposed to be here, Porthos. You are meant to become a musketeer. You are meant to become our brother. And you will never be able to stop me from doing everything in my power to help my brothers."

oOo

Aramis had left Porthos at the table with these profound thoughts swirling in his head. That fire burned again in his chest; in his heart, Porthos knew that every word the marksman had uttered was true. He had been drawn to Athos and Aramis instantly, and not simply because of the marksman's charisma.

It was something else. It was the instant ease they had found in each other's company. It was in the way that he somehow knew the meaning and the words behind each subtle shift in Athos' eyes. It was in the deep ache he felt when he had witnessed the damage he had caused to the marksman's body. It was even in the way he had come to their rescue that night on the streets of Paris…

As he thought back on that night, something once again had drawn him towards those men, drew him to leave the tavern at that moment – as though, as Aramis indicated, some cosmic force told him they might need him. It was in the way that that fire burned in his chest when he thought about fighting and living side by side with these men.

Porthos realized in that moment that his dreams had shifted. He no longer wanted to just be a musketeer – he wanted to be worthy of the brotherhood that Aramis had hinted at. For the first time, Porthos knew his place and it would be at the side of Athos and Aramis.

oOo


	7. Chapter 7

_**A/N: Wow! A lot of really awesome feedback for that last chapter. Some of you showed a lot of concern for poor Athos...This chapter will put you at ease.**_

_**Or will it?**_

* * *

Patience

Chapter 7

Athos sat alone at the dark corner table of the tavern. He was very drunk.

He made a point of picking an unfamiliar tavern, having no interest in seeing or speaking to anyone he knew, especially not Aramis and Porthos. What he had witnessed in the marksman's room had been almost more than he could bear and so he retreated, as he always did, into the relief he could find at the bottom of a bottle. Or several if the way the room was shifting was any indication.

When Aramis had raised his shirt to reveal the patchwork of bruises that covered his body, all feeling fled from Athos. When Porthos reacted with the pain, regret and desolation obvious in the way his voice wavered at the sight, Athos' heart stopped. The image of his brother Thomas' dead body had blazed behind his eyes again, accompanied as always by a vision of white lace and forget-me-nots.

Fear, pain, love and anger had surged through him suddenly and he had been forced to leave lest he strike both men, or break down sobbing at their feet.

Athos took a long swig from his glass of wine.

How had he let this happen?

It had been an accident with Aramis. He had never intended to let the man in – to know him or care for him – but from the instant they met, there had been something that had bonded the pair of them together, more than simply surviving at the front.

The spirit knows its kin before the mind does, he thought. Was it possible that this could be happening again with Porthos? He couldn't deny what he said to Aramis – there was something about Porthos that had felt familiar instantly; something that made Athos aware of where the man was. Even in the middle of the entire group of cadets, Athos would have been able to find Porthos blindfolded. It was the same innate sense to protect the man that Athos had also felt for Aramis. That he had felt for Thomas.

There was something that pushed him to trust these men, that told him he could depend on them – an urge that Athos had been fighting for so long. He thought he had defeated this vulnerability. Hadn't he tried? Didn't he make every effort to seal off his heart? He had already lost Thomas. Would he be able to survive the loss of Aramis and now Porthos too?

The vision of Aramis' beaten body flashed in his mind and his anger surged instantly. It's not that Athos hadn't seen Aramis injured before. In their line of work, frequent injury was par for the course. A week rarely passed without some kind of nick or bruise.

No, what angered Athos was twofold: that Porthos did it, and that Aramis let it happen.

Athos downed the contents of his glass and refilled it, upending the bottle to get every last drop from it.

Athos was well aware of Aramis' self-sacrificing tendencies – a habit that Athos ironically swore he would break him of if it killed him. No, Athos' anger was, at that moment, primarily directed at Porthos; Porthos should have known what the impact of his blows would do. He shouldn't have put Aramis in a position where he would need to risk injury in order to prove a point.

As his mind raged, the vision of Porthos' miserable face floated into his thoughts and dampened his anger at the man. Porthos had been in pain when he realized what he had done – as deep and sharp of a pain as Athos had felt himself at the revelation. The urge to reach out and comfort him in that instant throbbed in his chest and Athos found himself raising his hand to comfort the man as though he were still in front of him.

Shaking his head, he grasped his glass instead and took another large swallow of wine.

It was actually his fault, Athos realized. He should have protected them. He should have stopped it. He should have stopped Aramis. He should have known he'd do something like this. He should have sheltered Porthos from the knowledge of what his powerful fists had done to his brother. He should have protected them both like he should have protected Thomas.

Athos lowered his head. Two traitorous tears fell from his blue eyes and landed on the worn wooden tabletop.

"Athos," said a sad and gentle voice as a shadow fell across Athos' table.

"Go away," he said, refusing to look up at the marksman. The sound of the chair being pulled from the table indicated that the man had no intention to acquiesce, which wasn't surprising – Aramis hated following orders.

They were silent for a few moments. Athos' fingertips drew circles on the table through the treacherous tears. Aramis reached forward and grasped Athos' hand, stopping it in its tracks. They both stared at their clasped hands for a moment more.

"I'm sorry Athos," Aramis whispered finally.

Anger surged through Athos again, banishing the tears from his eyes. He yanked his hand free from the marksman.

"Why?" he demanded, his voice gravelly.

"I had to Athos. You must understand. I had to let him prove himself," Aramis said shrugging his shoulders.

"You knew," Athos said, his words slurring, but whether from the wine or his anger, it was hard to determine. "You knew you would be injured," he said accusingly.

"It was a risk," he admitted, "but there was no other way. I had to – "

"Yes, you had to help him prove his worth. But what of your worth, Aramis?" Athos spat. "Our role is dangerous enough without you sacrificing your body to prove a point!"

"Athos –"

"There could have been another way!" Athos shouted and the tables around theirs fell silent at this outburst.

Aramis sat there staring down at the table while Athos' eyes burned holes into the top of his head.

"Seeing you, knowing what he did. That nearly broke him," Athos said, his voice once more under control.

"I know," said Aramis sadly.

"And I…I couldn't protect him from it any more than I could protect you from the blows," he said bitterly.

Aramis' head snapped up at these words. His dark brown eyes were bright with concern and alarm.

"I couldn't protect him either…Thomas…" Athos said, his voice trailing off, his eyes practically bursting with unshed tears.

"Athos," Aramis said seriously, "It is not your responsibility to protect me. You will not always be able to."

Athos let out a bitter laugh. "My need to protect you is as inherent as yours is to throw yourself in harm's way."

"I don't believe that's fair," Aramis said quietly. Athos could tell that last remark had hurt his comrade.

In a rare move, Athos reached forward to retake the marksman's hand. "I can't lose another brother," he said fervently.

"You won't," said Aramis, his brown eyes matching the conviction and affection of Athos' blue.

oOo

The next day was difficult for Athos.

Aramis had led him home as he always insisted on doing when he thought the swordsman had had too much to drink, but this time, Athos insisted Aramis leave him at the door. He needed some time alone. His emotions were still too raw. He was morose and angry and needed to process his new feelings regarding Porthos, and the old pain regarding Thomas, on his own.

As he stood among the others awaiting muster, the throbbing in his head was different than the usual one he suffered from too much wine.

It had been a long time since he had been ripped open like that, but Aramis, as he always did, somehow saw through Athos. He managed to pull the deepest fears from him, in exchange for words of love, understanding and a comforting touch.

He saw Porthos warily glance his way; he seemed apprehensive about approaching him. Athos was glad for this. He wasn't sure what he would say to the man yet. His anger wasn't rational – Porthos hadn't realized that he had hurt Aramis, and Aramis was the one who demanded they fight. Still, deep in his heart, Athos felt that Porthos should have known – should have sensed his brother's pain. And despite all Aramis had said last night, Athos could still feel the burdensome weight of guilt as it settled heavily on his shoulders and beat on his head like a drum.

Aramis came to stand next to him, his dark eyes searching his face to get a read on where his mind might be. Athos raised an eyebrow and quirked his lip slightly.

"I'm fine, I just need time. Be patient," the look seemed to say.

The morning was moving on and the men were assembled and waiting idly as Treville finally marched down the stairs from his office. He was late, which was unusual, but the grim look on his face was not.

"Gentlemen," he said as the musketeers and cadets came to attention, "I will be sending a group of you on a training mission to practise your tactical thinking and survival skills. Marsac, Aramis, the two of you will lead it. I have the names here. The rest of you, your duties are as follows," he said as he handed out the day's orders. Athos and Porthos were not among the men who would be heading out on the training mission – they were to stand guard at a luncheon for the King instead.

"Where are you headed?" Athos asked Aramis as the men disbursed.

"Somewhere near Savoy," Aramis said brightly. "I'm actually looking forward to it. I like the snow, and spring comes later there."

Athos nodded. "I'm sure the training there will be helpful as well."

"It's a large group. 22 of us. Should be fun," he said.

Porthos approached the pair of them carefully. "Wanted t'wish you well before you set out."

"Thanks," said Aramis with a grin. "It's a four day ride out there, but it should be a simple training exercise."

Porthos nodded, then glanced nervously at Athos. Athos maintained his mask of stone as he looked back at the tall man. Aramis' eyes darted between the two in the awkward pause that followed.

"Well…good luck," Porthos said.

"Thank you, mon ami," he replied warmly, grasping Porthos' forearm. "I'll see you when I get back – ten days or so."

Porthis gave him a small smile and then walked away – his brown eyes casting one last glance at Athos.

Aramis turned to face Athos. "You should say something to him," he said.

Athos frowned and said nothing. He knew he should say something to Porthos – offer him an explanation at least for his reaction the other day, but not being particularly verbose at the best of times, he struggled to find the words to communicate – what, exactly? An apology? His fears? His past? How could he communicate how he felt towards Porthos, when it was a mystery still to himself?

"Have a good trip," he said tersely as he tried to turn away.

"Athos, please…" Aramis said, reaching out and grabbing his elbow, refusing to let him leave. The marksman's dark eyes burned bright, pleading with Athos to make an effort to resolve things with Porthos. Athos sighed as he looked into the soft dark pools of his brother's face.

"I shall try," he said – he could promise no more.

"I know," said Aramis, as he put his arms around the man and pulled him into a tight embrace.

"Be safe," Athos said as they broke apart.

"Athos, it's a training mission. What's the worst that could happen?" said Aramis with a grin.

Athos smirked. "I'm not sure – but I have no doubt you'll be the one to find out."

Aramis let out a laugh and running his hands through his hair, he replaced his hat on his head.

"You know," he said teasingly, "I did manage to survive well enough before we met."

Athos grinned back. "I know, but now you've come to rely on me to get you out of trouble. I fear you've become complacent."

Aramis let out another laugh and clapped Athos on the shoulder.

"Take care," Athos said seriously.

"I will if you will," he said with a grin, and pulling one more exasperated smirk from Athos, he tipped his hat and made his way towards the stables.

oOo


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N: Well, we're in for it now! Thanks for all the really great encouragement for this story after the last chapter. I feel like Savoy is a bit of a right of passage for writers in this fic - especially as I'm getting to my one year mark of writing for this community. Hope I won't let you down!**_

_**This chapter is a little short, but I'll try to get something out tomorrow too!**_

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Patience

Chapter 8

The first day with Aramis gone passed slowly.

Athos and Porthos were assigned duty together at the palace, so there was no true opportunity to speak. They were awkward in each other's company without the marksman to serve as their bridge and start the flow of conversation that they needed in order to understand each other.

They returned to the garrison in silence, both wrestling internally with all that they wanted to say to the other. As they crossed through the gates and into the courtyard, Porthos looked at Athos and his mouth opened. He frowned when no words came out and looked away.

"Porthos," Athos began, but as the man looked at him so hopefully, whatever he had been planning to say was wiped from his mind. "Have a good evening," he said lamely.

Porthos nodded, deflated. "You too," he said, and Athos turned on his heel and made for the tavern, Porthos' eyes following him.

oOo

Athos struggled to sleep that night. He tossed and turned and wished that he had had more to drink at the tavern, so at the very least he would black out to find some form of respite. Eventually, he was finally able to doze.

His dreams were troubled. They had begun as they always did – he was walking down a long familiar hallway. He knew every portrait that hung on the walls, so there was no need for him to look around. At the end of the hall he heard a commotion. A woman was crying; another was shouting. He pushed the door open and saw her being restrained.

And then his eyes were drawn to the body on the floor.

Thomas' body.

His lifeblood was forming a lake on the drawing room floor, its redness dying the carpet. She was pleading with him, but he couldn't hear anything. His eyes were fixed on Thomas' face.

He stared into Thomas's vacant green eyes and watched as the face seemed to morph into Aramis'. The dark curls were soaking up the blood, a slight smile still frozen on the marksman's lips. It was his eyes that Athos didn't recognize. The light that shone so brightly from those dark eyes was gone; it wasn't Aramis without that light. As he stared horrorstruck by the lifeless face, it began to change. The skin darkened, and the brown eyes lightened slightly, the hair grew shorter and the curls tightened. Suddenly, Athos realized he was staring into the face of Porthos. The slight smile drooped into a disappointed frown as Athos watched, and the face turned away from him.

Athos started awake, sitting bolt upright in bed and panting hard. He ran a hand through his hair and tried to calm his breathing. It took several deep breaths before he was finally able to rise, and begin to dress himself for muster.

oOo

Porthos was assigned to training at the garrison; Athos looked relieved as he was assigned a task that would have him away from the garrison for most of the day.

Porthos frowned slightly as he saw the man mount his horse. Athos too frowned as he gave Porthos a furtive glance from under the brim of his hat before riding off. There was so much Porthos had wanted to say to the swordsman, but every time they had met so far the stoic features and apprehensive demeanour of the man stole the words from out of his mouth.

The idea of a brotherhood that included this man would be impossible if the pair of them couldn't even have a conversation. Pothos knew that Athos was probably just as confused and surprised by everything that was happening, and not for the first time during his brief absence so far, did Porthos wish that Aramis were there to ease the tension with his loquacious and jovial nature. As he gazed after the musketeer as he disappeared down the Parisian streets, Porthos set his jaw. The pair of them would work through this. They had to. There was too much at stake for them not to.

oOo

It was the third day since Aramis and Marsac had departed leading a group of 20 musketeers and cadets.

Treville had noticed the tension that seemed to linger between Athos and Porthos since the marksman had left – there was very little that happened in the garrison that he was not aware of. Treville was not a man to meddle, and had counted on the maturity of the two to sort their issues out.

As the day dawned and his men who remained at the garrison assembled, Captain Treville made some last minute changes to his roster.

He wasn't a man to meddle...but he was a man well versed in strategy. If he wanted these men to resolve their issues, assigning them to market duty together could provide a more than ample opportunity for the two of them to clear the air.

His thoughts flashed quickly to the men he had sent to Savoy on this training mission. They should be arriving some time the next day. He knew his men would be in good hands under the leadership of Aramis, but something nagged at the back of his mind...His men had been sent on this training mission at the request of the King on some concocted suggestion by the Cardinal. It was the Cardinal's involvement that had the Captain frowning. He tried to banish the worry from his mind as he addressed his men.

He assigned their tasks and returned to his office, and the unceasing pile of paperwork that awaited him. That feeling of dread and worry lingered with him, and he knew it would remain there until he saw his men return through that gate.

Moving to his cabinet, Treville poured himself a glass of brandy and downed it in one go. He poured himself a second and turned back to his desk. It was early to be drinking, but sometimes it felt like that was the only way to deal with the Cardinal's subterfuge, the politics and the paperwork of the job.

oOo


	9. Chapter 9

Patience

Chapter 9

The marketplace was busy as Porthos and Athos traversed through the vendor stalls. It was strange for Porthos to be canvassing the marketplace for thieves. It was not so long ago that he himself would have been looking to relieve a nobleman of a few coins. His brow furrowed as he spied a boy he knew leaning casually against a vendor's cart. He was too casual. It was practised.

Porthos halted in his tracks, startling Athos. Grumbling, he approached the vendor.

"Oy! Monsieur, your purse is exposed. I'd be careful if I was you," he said, as the boy's hands quickly hid themselves behind his back.

"Thank you, monsieur," said the man as he stowed his purse and moved away.

Grabbing the boy by the elbow, Porthos marched him across the market until they were standing in a more secluded alley just off the main traffic.

"Porthos! Let go!" cried the boy as he struggled meekly in the big man's hands. He let go and the boy made to straighten his shirt.

"Alfonse, ya gotta be more careful," he said to the lad. The boy was clearly poor – his face and tattered shirt were both smudged with dirt and he looked to be about ten, but it was hard to tell – he looked like he could definitely use a few good meals. "Who sent you here?" Porthos asked.

"Charon," said the boy. "It's time I start contributing."

Porthos scowled. "Here," he said, fishing in his pockets and pulling out a few coins; Alfonse's eyes widened as he received them. "Buy yourself somethin' to eat first, then give the rest to Flea. She'll make good use of them."

"Thanks," said the boy with a grin.

"Alfonse," said Porthos reaching for the boy once more. "Be careful. If the Red Guards had caught you there would be nothin' I could do," he said. "Think before you do what Charon says. Listen to Flea, and if you're ever worried or in trouble, come find me at the Musketeers' garrison, ya?"

The boy's eyes grew even larger as he nodded. Porthos mussed his hair and the boy scampered off.

"I take it you know the urchin," said a voice over Porthos' shoulder. His stomach dropped to his feet as he turned slowly to face Athos.

"We come from the same place," Porthos said warily. Athos said nothing.

"Look, I know we're supposed to report things like that, but he's just a kid. Lad was jus' hungry," said Porthos with some urgency.

Athos looked at the man's anxious expression. "I have no idea what you mean," he said softly. "I haven't witnessed anything out of place," he said.

Porthos grinned at the swordsman. "Athos, look," he began.

"I believe there is much we should probably say to each other," Athos interrupted.

Porthos grinned again. "Maybe tonight? Over a drink?"

Athos' lips quirked in a slight smile. "I should like that," he said.

They turned back to their patrol, both men in much lighter spirits, when suddenly chaos broke loose. Two men had begun to scuffle, knocking over crates and barrels in their path. Women shrieked as the brawlers crashed past them and vendors shouted and attempted to gather up their wares. Athos sighed and made to intervene, but the two men broke apart suddenly.

One man had drawn a pistol. The other man lunged for it and the pair fought for control of the weapon. The people in the marketplace ducked for cover as the pistol wavered. It lowered and fired. Two men hit the pavement.

The gunshot had drawn two other passing musketeers who tackled the two fighters in the street, seizing the spent pistol.

"You alright?" one of the musketeer's called over their shoulder as he bound one of the men's hands behind his back.

"Think so," grumbled Porthos. He had landed roughly as the shot went off. Someone had knocked him to the ground. That someone was lying near him.

"Athos? Athos!" cried Porthos as realization of what had just happened dawned on him. He rolled the man onto his back where the bleary blue eyes stared up at him. Blood was leaking out of the man's side through his doublet.

"Athos is hit!" he shouted, causing both musketeers to spin and face him. "Looks like the bullet passed through, but he's bleedin' heavy. Can't tell if it's bad."

"Garrison's not far. Can you carry him?" the nearer musketeer cried.

Porthos nodded. Pulling the scarf from Athos' neck, he shoved it up and under his doublet so it was between the man's flesh and his leathers in an attempt to staunch the bleeding. Athos groaned in pain.

Quickly, but as gently as though he were lifting a baby, Porthos gathered Athos into his arms and all but ran with him back to the garrison.

"Athos's been shot!" he called seeing Captain Treville as he crossed the garrison's gates.

"Get him to the infirmary," he responded leading the way and holding the doors for Porthos as he carried Athos inside.

"What happened?" asked Etienne, one of the garrison's other medics, as he began to divest Athos of his doublet. The man's side was coated in blood, his scarf soaked through.

"Fight in the marketplace. We went to break it up. One man pulled a gun and it went off when they were fightin' for it. Athos…got hit."

Etienne nodded. "Well, you may have saved his life by slowing the bleeding," he muttered. Turning to his Captain, he said, "It's a through and through. Should be fine once it's cleaned and stitched. Doesn't seem to have hit anything important."

Treville nodded. "Fetch me when it's finished or when he comes to," said the Captain as he exited the infirmary.

"Porthos, I'm going to need your help with this," said Etienne, as Athos gave a loud groan as his senses returned to him.

"Athos," the medic said as he placed a hand on the man's shoulder. "You've been shot on your left side. The bullet passed through, but I'll still need to clean it and stitch you up to prevent any infection. You've lost quite a bit of blood."

"Aramis," muttered the man, somewhat groggily. Etienne smiled.

"Aramis is still away on his training mission in Savoy, so I'm afraid you're stuck with me." Athos nodded.

"Porthos?" he asked, his voice sounding hoarse.

"Here," he croaked and cleared his throat. "I'm here. I'm fine – not hurt, thanks to you," he said, stepping into the man's line of sight. Athos stared up at him, blue eyes burning into brown, and he nodded, the relief visible in his gaze.

"Alright, let's get this taken care of," said Etienne as he approached carrying a pot of boiled water. "Porthos, I'm going to need you to hold him down." Porthos and Athos both nodded. Porthos placed one hand on the man's shoulder and the other arm across his thighs as Etienne moved into position on the man's opposite side.

"Sorry Athos, this is going to hurt," he said and without any more preamble, he began to pour the water over the wound to clean it. Athos' body reacted reflexively to the pain and Porthos had to exert quite a lot of pressure to keep the man's legs still and his shoulders pinned to the table. Next came the alcohol and if possible, Athos thrashed and fought harder as the liquid burned at the wound. He stilled suddenly and Porthos' eyes bulged.

"Don't worry, it's for the best," said Etienne, "This way he'll be out for the stitching." Porthos blanched slightly. In all his years of battle, it was always the stitching of wounds that threatened to undo him. He looked at the slack face of Athos as Etienne prepped his needle. Some blood seemed to be dripping from his mouth. It looked as though the man had bit his cheek to stop himself from screaming in pain.

Porthos took a clean damp cloth and dabbed at the blood. Taking another, he placed the cool cloth on Athos' forehead.

"Thanks," said Etienne. "I don't expect him to get a fever, but the cloth will help keep his temperature level should it start to rise from the exertion and It'll definitely help with the headache he's bound to have from the blood loss." Porthos nodded and said nothing. A few moments later Etienne had finished his stitching and had covered the wound after dousing it once more with the clear liquor.

"Aramis showed me this one," he said as he coated the wound in the poultice. "Soothes the inflamation and helps to fight infection. You're welcome to stay by him. He'll probably be confused when he wakes and shouldn't be alone." Once again Porthos nodded. He seemed to have lost the ability to speak as he had witnessed Etienne tend to the wound.

"Great," said Etienne. "I'll go report to the Captain. I'll have some food sent up to you in a bit. You should get him to eat something."

The door swung shut behind the medic. Porthos took a seat in the chair next to Athos. Athos was so still...

He refreshed the cloth on the swordsman's head and then gently took his lax hand in his.

oOo


	10. Chapter 10

_**A/N: It's been a rough few days for me personally as we lost two family members unexpectedly and i struggled to get this posted. It helped though as a little escape from everything. I apologize if there are any errors, and I thank you once again for taking the time to read, review, follow and favourite.**_

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Patience

Chapter 10

Porthos lost track of time as he sat there holding Athos' hand. At some point, someone brought in a pot of soup and hung it by the fire to keep warm. Porthos hardly noticed.

Images from the marketplace kept circling through his mind: meeting with Alfonse, the two men fighting, the pistol being drawn, Athos pushing him to the ground, Athos motionless, Athos bleeding…

Athos had saved Porthos' life – there was no doubt about it – but why? Why had he done that? Why had he pushed Porthos from harm's way? At a time when Porthos was barely certain if the man even liked him, he had willingly and knowingly taken a bullet for him. In those brief moments, Athos had made the decision to save Porthos regardless of what the consequences might be to his own wellbeing. He had friends before, sure, but would Charon have stepped into a bullet for him?

Porthos didn't know when the tears had begun to fall as he sat alone in the infirmary clutching the swordsman's hand.

"Porthos," came a gravelly but tender voice. Porthos fought the urge to jump in surprise. "Are you hurt?"

Porthos coughed out a laugh. "Am I hurt?" he said, his own voice huskier than he would have liked. "I'm fine. You knocked me outta the way. May have had a sore landing, but can't complain otherwise," he said as he hastily wiped the tears from his eyes.

"I'm sorry," Athos murmured, with a grimace. "Next time I'll try to knock you into something softer."

Porthos grinned at the man and was rewarded with a small smile. The grin vanished quickly from Porthos' face as the blue eyes of the bedridden man closed slightly as his body registered its pain.

"Athos," Porthos said quietly, his brow furrowing. "You saved my life. You took that bullet for me. Why?"

Athos sighed and said nothing for a long moment. "In all honesty Porthos, I don't know," he said. He paused and took a deep breath, wincing slightly as the new stitches pulled at his side. Softly he continued to speak.

"I had a brother once," he continued, "He died. It was my fault. I didn't protect him. I…I couldn't let you be hurt. Not if I could protect you."

"You didn't need to do that. You shouldn't have risked yourself like that for me," he said, his eyes burning once more as tears threatened to escape.

Athos said nothing but looked into the soft brown eyes of this giant enforcer as he fought with his emotions. Athos was not startled by the openness of the big man's emotions. One would have thought a man of this size would be formidable, and Athos knew that he was; proportionately then, Athos mused, his feelings must be equally powerful.

Porthos seemed to struggle for a moment searching for words before he softly began to speak.

"My whole life…I've kind of been on my own. Mum died when I was five. Was raised in the Court of Miracles. That's how I knew the boy. Was a thief and a pickpocket myself once. Had no family, but a few friends and enough people around me so we kind of all looked out for each other. But I had to get outta there," he said taking a rattling breath. "I enlisted in the army about three years ago. I saw you, you know…you and Aramis. You were talking to your troops before one of the last battles. Rallying them. I never wanted to be a musketeer so bad in my life than I did then. Afterwards, when I got word from Treville askin' me to come here, to become a musketeer…" his voice trailed off.

"I'm sorry Athos. I shoulda known that I'd hurt Aramis. You've gotta believe me that that was the last thing I'd ever want to do. I…I don't know how to explain it…but there's something about the two of you…somethin' that makes me want to protect you – to be by your side. You're gonna think it's crazy, but I feel like…"

"Like we've met before. As though we've always fought side-by-side?"

Porthos nodded fervently.

"I have felt the same. I have no explanation for you Porthos. I felt the same way the first time I met Aramis," Athos said. "I need to apologize to you for the way I acted earlier. Aramis has…the tendency to act rashly; to risk his life for the greater good."

"He's good at finding trouble," said Porthos with a grin.

Athos smiled back. "It's exhausting." Porthos coughed out a laugh and then helped Athos to sip from a cup of water. After a few moments Athos began to speak.

"When I saw the marks that were left on Aramis' body, I became enraged. I was proud of him and angry with him and angry with you too, but it wasn't your fault. It was mine, and his righteous self-sacrifice. After I lost Thomas," he said and paused. "After I lost Thomas, I swore I'd never let anyone close to me again. And then Treville threw Aramis at me, and somehow he got through. He got through so he wasn't just a comrade and friend. Our souls recognized each other as brothers instantly."

Porthos dropped his head as he listened to the moving words of the swordsman.

"I believe Porthos, that my soul recognized you in the same way," Athos said quietly. The room was silent following this pronouncement. Slowly, Porthos raised his head, the brown eyes coming to meet the blue. He nodded slowly.

"I know. Feel the same way," he said, the husky tone returning to his voice. "I swear to you Athos that I'm gonna spend the rest of my life being worthy of your brotherhood. For the first time, I feel like I have a place – like there's somewhere I finally belong. It's with you and Aramis – fighting by your side." Porthos smiled as he felt a slight squeeze from the hand he hadn't realized he was still holding. He chuckled as he wiped at the tears that had managed to escape his eyelashes once more to fall silently down his cheeks.

"I should get you to eat something or Etienne and the Captain will have my neck," he said gruffly, and rising from his seat, he filled two bowls with the soup that was still resting by the fire.

oOo

Athos was forced to stay in the infirmary for two days. Porthos came to visit him at mealtimes, sneaking a bottle of wine in with him at dinner. Porthos told Athos about his life in the Court and about his years of service in the infantry. Athos listened quietly and spoke to Porthos about philosophy and loaned him a book on some of the great battles of military history.

On Athos' final evening in the infirmary, Treville came back to check on Athos' progress.

When he entered, he was startled to see Porthos – startled, but not surprised. Treville was anxious and as he paced the room, Porthos and Athos grew uneasy.

"Captain," said Porthos, "No disrespect, but I don't think you're a very good gambler. Somethin's botherin' you."

The Captain stopped and straightened. He cast an apprehensive look towards the two musketeers sitting in the infirmary. Treville could feel Athos' blue eyes reading him intently. He sighed and washed a hand down his face.

"A worry Or a threat has taken root in my mind ever since the men left for their training mission. I may be going mad, but I can't shake this feeling that something went wrong."

"The men should have reached Savoy the day before yesterday. They were expected to stay there for three days before returning," said Athos. Treville nodded.

"What makes you think somethin' happened?" Porthos asked.

Treville shook his head. "I don't know. It's just a feeling."

Athos' brow had furrowed. "Aramis," was all he muttered and he began to rise.

"Do you think he's hurt?" Porthos asked, looking to Athos for guidance.

"I don't know, but I too have had anxious dreams since the men set out. I'd rest easier knowing that Aramis and the others are safe."

"It's decided then. Rest tonight. We'll set out at first light for Savoy. With any luck, if we ride hard, we can be there in three days' time," said Treville as he nodded at the two men.

oOo


	11. Chapter 11

_**A/N: I want to take a second and thank you for your kind words and support through everything the last few days. It's really meant a lot. Writing has been a bit of an escape for me, which is weird. I didn't know how I would feel writing about Savoy now, so I'm sorry if the next part of this gets a little dark...just know that it needed to, and it helped, as did all your thoughts and kind words and encouragement. Thank you for reading.**_

_**Here goes...**_

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Patience

Chapter 11

It had been four long days in the saddle, but as the men set up their tents on the fourth day at their campsite near the border of Savoy, Aramis was pleased.

He had always found a quiet comfort in the snow. He had grown up in the south in a coastal town near the border with his mother before being taken to his father's estate. The first time he had seen snow was on his journey north after fleeing his father's land. It had been the first moment of peace he had felt in that most turbulent time of his life.

He rode with a soft smile on his lips as the downy white flakes floated down from heaven and settled on the tree branches, decorating them in crystals.

As he took a seat by the fire later that evening, Marsac passed him a wineskin, which he took with a grin.

"We should start the training early in the morning. Diversionary and ambush tactics," he said as he took a swig.

"I agree," said Marsac, plucking the wine back from Aramis. "Surprised your new friend wasn't part of this group. Or Athos," he said derisively.

Aramis frowned. "Come now Marsac, you hardly know them. They are good men. As are you. I'm sure if you made an effort to know them, you'd value them as I do," Aramis said as he snatched the wineskin again from Marsac playfully.

Marsac grinned at the marksman. "Please Aramis. What could we possibly have in common?"

"You mean besides an unwavering affection for me?" he said raising his eyebrow in challenge.

Marsac laughed. "Affection? More like a tolerance and divine patience for…"

"Amen," said Aramis, taking another swig and passing the wineskin back to Marsac.

"Amen," he said before taking a drink as well.

oOo

The training the next day went well. The mix of cadets and musketeers proved advantageous, as the elder musketeers were able to offer guidance to the new cadets. There was to be one more day of training before they made their long trip back to Paris. After a hot meal the men settled down for bed.

Michel and Hugo were to have the first watch that night. Aramis stopped them as they passed and handed them both a cup of hot wine.

"To keep you warm," he said with a grin. "Come wake Marsac and I in three hours."

The musketeer and cadet thanked him, and took up their posts for the first watch of the night.

Aramis was glad as he hunkered down on his bedroll; he would, at least temporarily, be able to escape the clawing grasp of the cold.

oOo

All he felt was pain – but this was nothing new.

It was something he knew well, and something he had learned to control and suppress at the hands of his father.

How many times had those skills come in handy? How many times had his ability to force away the feelings of pain saved not only his life but the lives of his brothers-in-arms?

His brothers.

His heart stopped at that word.

The pain in his head surged in that moment and he pressed his hand against his brow. There was a bandage wrapped around it; his hand still came back a little moist with blood though. He stared at the soft redness unable to reconcile its presence on his hand with its source.

He tried to stand and he managed to regain his feet. Some wound hidden under another bandage at his side throbbed as the muscles contorted in order to allow him to stumble forward where he crashed into a tree. He leant against it heavily, swallowing back the pain. This was not the time for it. He would focus on the wound later.

In the distance he saw a man standing. The man looked around at the dark unmoving masses around him. Aramis stayed focused on the man. He couldn't look too closely at the unmoving heaps yet; some had trails of scarlet marking the white snow leading to their resting places.

Aramis watched as the man pulled something from his shoulder and held it in his hands.

"Marsac," he cried, but his voice was barely more than a whisper.

"Marsac!" he tried again and the man's head turned to face him. Blue miserable eyes stared back at him. The man looked down at the pauldron clasped in his hands and deliberately released it. It fell to the ground before him, its buckles jingling like sleigh bells in the snow.

Slowly the man turned and began to walk away.

"Marsac!" Aramis shouted and tried to run after him. The ground swayed violently like a ship's deck on turbulent waves and Aramis crashed to his knees. "Marsac! Don't! Don't leave! We've got to help them!" he cried desperately.

Aramis pushed down his dizziness and the pain from his wounds and tried to regain his feet. He managed to stagger the three paces to the next tree, which he collapsed against again, breathing hard, blood trickling slowly down his side.

Marsac's shape had disappeared into the mist of the grey of dawn.

"Marsac!" Aramis cried again as he tried to force himself to stand, but his legs buckled and he collapsed immediately. He began to crawl forward on his hands and knees, blind in his desperation, to reach where Marsac had been. His elbow gave way suddenly and he fell coming face to face with Maurice. The man's wide green eyes no longer saw but still registered his shock. He was hardly dressed. The remnants of his tent lay smouldering nearby. Aramis reached forward and closed Maurice's eyes, muttering a prayer for his soul as he did so. How cold the man's face was!

Aramis retched as the ground swirled again. The ache in his side was doing battle with the one in his head, but he ignored them both and he continued to crawl. He passed more bodies as he sought out his destination.

He closed the eyes of Francois and Yves and of the new recruit, Hector. He was a good shot. He would have made a fine musketeer.

Aramis reached his destination. He raised himself onto his knees and picked up the pauldron – Marsac's pauldron and held it in his trembling fingertips.

"Marsac!" he cried, "Brother! Please! Come back! Don't leave. Don't leave me here. Don't leave me alone…" he muttered as the last of his strength left him and the pain roared its victory.

He clutched the pauldron to his chest and collapsed onto the snowy ground; his head made contact with the frozen earth and the world went dark as the cold sun rose.

oOo

He awoke sometime later. He wasn't sure if it was his own violent shivers that had woken him or something else.

Off to his right he saw a tent. A wide gash made by a sword made the tent unsalvageable, but Aramis still crawled towards it. Inside he found a man's boots and a pistol next to a trampled bedroll and blanket. Aramis grasped the blanket and desperately threw it around him. The material was cold – almost as cold as the marksman was, but Aramis was grateful for its weight.

Something blue tucked into the side of the tent caught his' eye. His shaking hands pulled a thick blue cloak from the tent's depths – a musketeer's cloak. Aramis threw that around his shoulders as well and instantly felt some sensation of warmth on his back. He tucked the pistol into his belt. Carefully he rose out of the tent.

He could see his trail from before and the four brothers-in-arms that he had tried to help find peace. He looked around the forest clearing once more and nearly collapsed again. Broken and burned tents lay everywhere. Men's bodies were equally strewn about the clearing, cut short and cast away like refuse. He burned their names into his mind.

He staggered from body to body, closing the men's eyes and saying a prayer over each one of them, desperate for any signs of life.

He found Marcus, still bleeding sluggishly, but unresponsive. Looking at the wound, Aramis knew that there was nothing he could do for the man. He made the mark of the cross on his head and prayed for his soul as well.

He was exhausted and growing weaker with the pain in his head and side continuously calling for his attention, but he had to keep going.

They couldn't all be dead.

He couldn't be the only one.

He would keep going until he found life.

They couldn't all be dead...

A soft cough echoed like a canon in Aramis' mind as he stood over another brother's body. His head snapped back and forth, desperate to locate whoever made it through this massacre.

"Hello?" he croaked. His throat felt like he had swallowed the shards of a glass bottle. "Hello?" he tried again with more effort. Something at the back of his mind had him considering keeping quiet in case their attackers returned, but the desperation in Aramis to save someone – anyone – was too much. He shut his eyes to focus, his body swaying slightly in the wind.

Another cough came from somewhere on his right. There were six men lying there – the last of the men who set out with him. Aramis moved as quickly as he could towards them. Another soft cough and the slight cloud of breath that formed in the cold as the man exhaled had Aramis crouching on his knees next to Albert.

Albert was a tall cadet with fair hair. Aramis recognized him as one of the men that first approached Porthos after their bout. Aramis looked quickly over the man's body. He had been stabbed in a few places: once, high on his shoulder, another sword thrust had taken part of his left arm, but it was the wound to his lower right side that had Aramis most worried.

"Albert, can you hear me?" Aramis whispered at the man. He tried to clear his throat, but that sensation of grating glass made it futile. "Albert," he said again, his hands reaching up to tap the cadet's face and brush his hair from his brow. The man was so cold.

"Albert," cried Aramis desperately, "Please, Albert, please. Open your eyes."

"Aramis?" came a faint, hoarse whisper.

"Albert!" Aramis cried, stroking the man's face. "I'm right here. I'm here brother. I'm here."

The man's eyelids rose fractionally, their brown depths sheltered by eyelashes that had begun to gather the unrelenting snowflakes. "Aramis," the man whispered, "I have a sister…Jeanine" he said and coughed again. Specks of blood flecked his face from the coughing and Aramis grasped his right hand in his. "My sister…" he panted, "Tell her…tell her I fought bravely."

"You will tell her yourself," Aramis said fervently, squeezing the man's hand. "You just need to hold on. Hold on! Marsac – Marsac went to find help! He wouldn't have left us here. He'll be back soon with help!" Aramis said, "Just hold on Albert...Hold on." The man nodded.

Aramis shifted and tore the hem of his shirt. "I'm going to try to staunch the wound, but I'll be right here. I won't let go of your hand," he said. He pressed the torn part of his shirt into the wound. The man didn't react, which wasn't a good sign. Aramis pulled the cloak so it covered them both as he pressed himself as close as possible to the cadet, still clutching his hand.

"I'll protect you Albert. I swear it. I'll protect you until Marsac brings help," Aramis panted, struggling against the overtures of the pain that continued to plagues his own body. "Just hold on Albert...Marsac...He's coming... He wouldn't abandon his brothers...Hold on," Aramis whispered as his head dropped against the tree Albert had been leaning on and he was taken by the darkness once more.

oOo

When Aramis woke next to Albert, their hands were still clasped, but Albert was gone. His eyes stared unseeingly up into the tree canopy. He couldn't be sure how much time had passed. Aramis shut Albert's eyes and rolled away from him and sobbed.

He was alone now.

Alone with the dead.

He wailed and thrashed meekly at the ground until exhaustion took him once more.

The next time he came to, Aramis tried to get to his feet again, but it was no use.

Vaguely, he felt for the wound at his side. It hurt like hell, but it looked as though the cold had helped to finally slow or stop the bleeding. He wasn't dead at any rate.

Looking at the dead men around him, Aramis' heart stopped.

He was still alive. But why? How?

Why was he spared?

The world spun again as the darkness crept closer. The cruel cold wind seemed as though it carried voices with it. He crawled on his hands and knees to another tree, the ominously still forms of the others lay across from him.

There was a weight in his hand.

He held the pistol he had found earlier by the tent.

oOo


	12. Chapter 12

_**A/N: Thank you so much for your amazing feedback on my last chapter. It always means a lot when you take the time to share your thoughts on what's written. There's a little more pain to come still...**_

_**Thank you, thank you, thank you!**_

* * *

Patience

Chapter 12

Porthos, Athos and Treville rode hard. Something pushed them forward.

Porthos rode silently, his worry having stolen his ability to speak. It marked his forehead with constant, deep furrows.

Athos was cold and grim and determined. He railed silently against every delay - of which there were few, the men stopping only long enough to rest their horses - as he ignored the pain in his own healing side.

They rode on, chased by their fears and their worry. They had not received any proof or evidence to substantiate their anxiety, but each man just knew that there was something wrong.

oOo

His eyes were closed, but the light still managed to burn through his lids.

It wasn't warm; it was cold, and hard and bright and threw the devastation that surrounded him into horrible focus. Aramis didn't want to open his eyes.

Something was prodding his hand and he heard a rustle. His eyes flew open instantly and were met by more horrors. Carrion birds – crows – had settled on his men and had begun to pick at their remains as Aramis slept.

He had left his comrades defenceless.

He pushed himself forward, his arms flailing, trying to deter the crows from their feasts.

For every bird that surrendered, it seemed like two more landed to take its place. Their red eyes regarded Aramis with only scathing derision. Their chorus of evil laughter echoed loudly in the still woods, seemingly shouting at him a haunting reminder: "Lone!"

Try as he might, Aramis couldn't keep up the chase. He crashed to the ground again and again. The wounds to his head and his side had left him so weak it was a struggle to even lift his arms to gesture angrily.

Why, he asked himself again, was he still living while all the others were not?

It wouldn't be much longer now.

Perhaps this would be his fate – to watch in horror as the crows stole what was left of the group of strong men that set out for Savoy.

He crawled his way back to his tree and wept. He wept for hours and asked his God for salvation of any sort: to be rescued or to be delivered – Aramis didn't care which.

As another night fell and the birds retired for the evening, Aramis stared into the darkening dead faces of his men.

He stared from their dead forms to the barrel of the pistol that he still clutched in his hands.

oOo

It had been three days since they rode out from the garrison, pushing themselves and their horses hard. They neared the border of Savoy in the dark of night. Their horses staggered as they approached an inn. They dismounted and handed the poor beasts over to the stable boy. Treville handed him a handful of coins.

"Do all you can for these beasts," he said as he turned his back on the lad. They took a room and retired to it immediately.

They silently ate the stew that was offered them, each man lost in his thoughts.

"We shouldn't be stopping," Athos said as he began pacing the floor. "It's been too long. We should have met them on the road if things were well."

"I know it's hard, but we've got to be patient. We need to wait for daylight. We'd never find them in the dark," Treville reasoned, his eyes following the swordsman as he paced. Athos growled in frustration, kicking an ottoman across the room. He turned to face Treville, then without a word he marched out of the room and headed down the stairs for the barroom without a dismissal.

Porthos and Treville sat silently, Treville massaging the bridge of his nose.

"He's scared," Porthos said quietly.

"I know," Treville said.

"Aramis is his brother. He feels helpless."

Treville nodded. "Athos has every right to be angry with me. I can barely stand to catch a glimpse of my reflection. If something happened, Porthos, it's on me. My orders."

"You were only following orders, Captain. Athos understands. That's why he's angry. He understands exactly what you're going through, the position you're in. You were just fulfilling your duty. He just wants this nightmare over with – however it may end." Porthos rose. "I'm going to go check on him. Whatever happens Captain, whatever we find, this was not your fault. Your orders came from the King. There was nothing you could do," he said, and turning he went after Athos.

Athos sat alone at a table with a bottle of wine and a glass. Porthos approached apprehensively. He was startled to see the glass and the bottle untouched.

"Athos," Porthos said, taking the seat across from the swordsman. The blue eyes were fixated on the table as though they were trying to burn holes through it under the fire of his gaze. The gaze was so intense that Porthos wouldn't have been surprised if the wood started smoking.

"We're going to find him," Porthos said without question, breaking Athos' gaze from the table.

He stared at the man across from him. "It may be too late."

"Is that what your heart tells you?" Porthos asked.

Athos' brow furrowed as a new fire leapt to his eyes. This fire Porthos knew was burning in his as well, a desperate combination of determination and hope. Most of all, hope. "My heart tells me that he is not dead."

"We will find him Athos. Together we'll find him and bring him home," Porthos said grabbing the man's wrist, as blue eyes once again burned into brown. They returned to their room leaving the bottle untouched. Dawn could not come soon enough.

oOo

"Go away," he muttered to the voices.

They pleaded with him to bring messages to loved ones. Some sobbed. Others were angry and shouted cruel things at him: Why was he allowed to live and they were not?

"I don't know!" he shouted out to the blood splattered woods.

The voices had begun a few days ago, Aramis thought, when Marsac left him alone with the dead and dying. They were quiet at first, but as he sat alone among the dead, the voices grew louder, supported and echoed by the relentless morbid cries of those birds...

His guilt grew with every breath he drew. How could he still be breathing the free air when their lives were spent?

"Please, go away," he said, his eyes letting tears fall that he thought were impossible. He had sobbed and prayed for what felt like an eternity - how could it be that he had any tears left?

The pistol in his hand had a comforting weight. A pistol had always felt good when he held it. It was natural for him, like an extension of his own body. He gripped the weapon tighter as the voices grew.

The cold blew over him again, its icy fingers clawed mercilessly up his spine. He no longer shuddered and had lost feeling through much of his body, but still somehow the cold cut deep like blades cruelly carving across his frozen flesh.

The whiteness of the snow had lost any semblance of beauty but instead seemed only to throw the darkened pools and trails of blood into higher contrast. They burned against the insides of his eyelids so he saw them even as he clenched his eyes tight: red and black and the falsely innocent white that supped gluttonously on the blood-bounty that was spread upon it.

"Please," he begged, "Please. Go away. I'm sorry. Please, God forgive me," he muttered weakly. The voices only grew louder.

He could still see some of the dark winged shapes descending on his fellow musketeers, eager for another feast on the bodies of the brave.

Or perhaps these demons had finally come for him.

Perhaps they would be the creatures that would be carrying him to the devil himself.

"Go away," he said, his voice bereft of any strength. "Get away from them," he rasped futilely.

He wouldn't have much longer for this world.

Help wasn't coming.

Marsac had deserted him.

The brotherhood he had cherished, that he had believed in so fervently was a lie.

He was alone.

It was just him and the dead and the devils.

He looked at the pistol once more.

Raising it, he fired.

oOo


	13. Chapter 13

**_A/N: Sorry for that last cliffhanger. I went back and forth a bunch trying to decide if that's how I should end that chapter, but the dramatic side of me won in the end! Thank you all for the continued support and your fantastic reviews! A little more pain, but maybe, finally, some peace in this next chapter..._**

* * *

Patience

Chapter 13

The dawn had barely begun to streak the clouds when Treville, Porthos and Athos were up and prepping their horses. In a flash of brilliance, Porthos had borrowed a small cart from the inn to bring back…whatever they found.

They mounted their horses and rode towards the wooded area where Treville knew his men would have made their camp. It was secluded and away from the main road. They should have been sheltered there, away from any threats. They were not a threat to the Duke of Savoy – just a distraction, really. Louis' musketeers on a training mission – to be supervised, but left in peace.

Treville sat straighter in his saddle as though to counterbalance the enormous weight of his dread as they rode towards the trees, the cold sun reflecting off the snow.

A pistol fired and a cloud of carrion birds took off from the trees ahead of them. The three men didn't speak. They didn't hesitate. As one they spurred their horses forward.

oOo

The sight that met the men stole their breath away; there were the bodies of the musketeers and cadets strewn everywhere.

They dismounted and stared wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the carnage around them.

"They were attacked in their beds. Most of these men weren't even dressed when they were slaughtered," Athos said bitterly as he knelt next to one of them, the blue tinge of the face showing that this life was too far gone.

Porthos knelt next to another body. "Michel," he whispered as he beheld the body of the kind cadet – the first one to show him any form of acceptance.

Treville said nothing as he moved from body to body, looking at the lives of his men that were lost. It was as if his own life was being sucked from him as he moved from corpse to corpse. He wanted to retch, he wanted to pull his hair from his head, to sob and scream at the betrayal that stared blankly back at him from the twenty or so frozen faces before him. And everywhere he looked he saw the traces of the Cardinal and his lies in the blackened scarlet trails that lined the snow.

Athos was staring at the face of another dead musketeer, his eyes travelling from face to face of the men around him. His brow was creased as he stared at the bodies.

"Their eyes," he muttered finally. "Someone has closed their eyes."

"Aramis," Porthos whispered.

"Split up," said Treville.

The men spread themselves among the dead and began searching for the marksman that they had hoped had fired the pistol.

A flutter of black caught Porthos' eye. The crows had returned and had landed on some of the bodies of the dead soldiers.

"Get outta here!" he hollered and chased the birds. Staring at the ground, Porthos saw the remains of one of the crows. It had been shot through the heart, its bloodstained feathers blew across the frozen ground: black and red spread across the white.

Porthos followed the path that the bullet would have taken to where it led back to a mass that was slumped over next to a tree, and wrapped in a blue musketeer's cloak. The body was not moving.

Porthos' heart stopped and it sank like a brick so that he felt as though he were treading on it. His stomach rebelled in fear and relief and he retched. "Aramis," he muttered weakly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

He stumbled towards the mass, tripping over what he was sure was his heart as he threw himself down onto the ground and pulled the marksman towards him. He gasped as he saw the bandage around the man's head, his frighteningly pale skin marked by trails of dark dried blood.

"Athos!" he shouted into the expanse behind him, "Athos! I've found him!"

Looking down at the marksman in his arms, he desperately felt his neck for any sign of a pulse. For what seemed like an eternity he felt nothing over the booming of his own heart. He lowered his face so his cheek hovered just over the man's mouth. Porthos did not hear Athos approaching him.

Athos looked as though he had aged 20 years as he took in the sight of Aramis in Porthos' arms. Porthos had started to sob and Athos sank onto his knees next to the large man, his hand finding the man's shoulder. Porthos' head whipped around at the touch to catch Athos' eyes.

"He's alive," Porthos whispered hoarsely.

Athos swallowed back all the emotions he could, but he knew his eyes betrayed him. He nodded at Porthos and removed his own cloak from his shoulders to drape it around Aramis.

"I'll get the cart. Try to keep him warm," he said and stood. Treville had staggered towards them and knelt by Porthos. He ran a trembling hand through the marksman's hair.

It only took a few moments for Athos to bring the cart around to them.

"Porthos," he said as he climbed into the back of the cart. The large man needed no more instruction than that. He rose, and carrying Aramis like a babe in arms, he delicately delivered Aramis into Athos' outstretched hands. The swordsman pulled Aramis into his chest as he braced himself against the cart wall. Porthos wrapped Athos' cloak around them, covering even their heads so the pair was nestled into a cocoon of sorts. He leapt into the driver's seat and cast a glance at his Captain.

"Go. Get him to the inn. Have the innkeeper fetch the surgeon. I'll stay here with the others. See if the innkeeper can spare a few lads to help…ask them…ask them to bring sheets and carts," Treville said. His tone was even, but his eyes betrayed his anguish.

Porthos nodded at his Captain, a man as lost and scared as they were in that moment, and spurred the horses pulling the cart forward.

When they reached the inn, Porthos once again gathered Aramis into his arms and flew with him up the stairs to their room, Athos tight on his heels. Athos immediately began to stoke the fire in the large fireplace until a hot blaze was going, instantly warming the room. Porthos sat as close to the blaze as he dared, clutching the marksman to him.

The marksman was still so cold. Porthos began removing his doublet as Athos held him in place. He removed Aramis' soiled shirt and hissed when he saw the blood soaked bandage.

He began to remove his own shirt and doublet. "I saw this one winter in the court. Skin to skin helped keep the children alive," he responded to the question Athos didn't ask.

When they were resettled, Athos pulled the blankets from the bed. He tucked two tightly around Aramis and the third around Porthos' bare shoulders. Taking his and Porthos' cloaks, he draped those around the two men as well so just their heads were visible.

"I'm going to call for the surgeon. I'll be right back…Porthos," Athos said hesitantly. It was clear he didn't want Aramis out of his sight.

"Go, we'll be fine. I promise," Porthos said and the swordsman flew to the door and back down the stairs.

oOo

It was almost two hours until the surgeon came. In that time, Aramis had begun to regain some heat, though he shivered violently in Porthos' arms.

His eyes opened for a moment, but without seeing. "'thos," he muttered before sinking back into his oblivion. Sweat began to form on his brow though his body was still so cool. Porthos just held him tighter as Athos continued to add more wood to the fire.

Treville entered as the surgeon did. Athos helped Porthos lift the drawn marksman onto the table. Athos nearly collapsed as he felt how light his already normally thin companion felt. He had deteriorated in his suffering and looked frail. His lips were chapped and his cheeks had sunken. His eyes looked swollen as well, but Athos silently begged for the marksman to open his eyes. He needed to be sure that Aramis was in there. The image from his nightmare of the marksman's extinguished eyes flashed in his memory, but Athos swallowed it away.

The surgeon poured warm water onto the bandages caked with blood in order to loosen them.

"These wounds have been treated – poorly, but treated enough to have fought a worse infection. It seems likely that he'll have a concussion, but how bad and long lasting i can't be sure," the doctor said. The three dangerous-looking men nodded.

"What worries me," he continued, "is the wound at his side. He's lost a lot of blood. There are signs of a minor infection. I can try to clean it and stitch it, but he may be too far gone…"

"Do it," said Athos firmly. "You don't know him. He'll pull through."

Porthos' fearful eyes found Athos'. The flame surged in his chest as he again bore witness to the devotion that burned in those intense blue eyes. That devotion strengthened his resolve as he stood next to Athos, staring down at their brother.

"How can we help," he grumbled.

The doctor nodded and began giving them directions. Porthos flinched as the wound to Aramis' side was revealed again. Porthos stood across from the doctor, prepared to hold the marksman down if necessary. Athos helped the doctor wash the wound until it started to bleed again, the blood running clear. Treville stood at Aramis' head, his hands placed on his soldier's shoulders, his eyes never straying from the marksman's face. Porthos watched every year of their long relationship flicker across Treville's face.

"Hang on, Aramis!" Porthos' heart called to his brother. "You can't leave us like this!"

The doctor looked at all three men who stared into the face of the prone marksman, and without a word, he doused the wound in a clear alcohol. Aramis shifted slightly upon the contact. That was a far cry from the reaction the alcohol should have elicited, but it was the biggest physical reaction they had witnessed from the man so far, so they secretly savoured it.

As the doctor began his stitching, Porthos had to look away. There was something wrong about this. The man's stitches weren't as neat or even as Aramis' were or even Etienne's. Somehow it seemed wrong to have this stranger sewing closed a wound in his brother, but neither he nor Athos had training in such matters. Porthos was sure that even despite his best efforts, his stitches would have been far worse – that is if he could even complete them.

With the wound to Aramis' side closed, the doctor once more looked to the injury at his temple. "It looks as though he's suffered a blow. The wound is shallow and has already begun to heal, but I can still see some bruising. If he wakes up, he'll need to conquer a bad concussion. Has he regained consciousness at all?"

The men exchanged glances.

"We believe he fired the pistol that drew us to him, though he had lost consciousness by the time we reached him," Treville said.

"He said something as he began to warm in the room, but we couldn't be sure what it was," Athos said. He gently took Aramis' hand and stroked the chafed knuckles with his thumb, childishly hoping that Aramis might recognize his contact and awaken.

"That's a good sign," said the doctor. "He's incredibly weak from the loss of blood. I'd also wager he hasn't had anything to eat or drink, but the fact that he's said anything at all and was active enough to fire a pistol are good signs. Did he hit his target?"

"Of course," said Porthos, and Treville and Athos nearly grinned.

The doctor sighed. "It'll be a few hours still until there's a chance he might wake. Keep an eye on him. When he does, he'll likely be confused. See if you can get him to eat or drink anything – just clear broth at first."

"Thank you Doctor," said Treville, "let me show you out."

"Poor man," said the doctor as he turned to leave with Treville.

Porthos and Athos stared down at their prone brother. Athos was startled by the larger man's hand on his shoulder, but he leaned into the touch. Somehow, under the pressure from that hand, Athos felt grounded, as though the thoughts and fears that had threatened to fly away with him were suddenly calmed. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, reteaching himself how to breathe.

"Can't believe we found him," Porthos whispered, his voice husky again from restraining his tears for so long. "Now we just gotta wake him up."

"It's a relief that the wound to his head didn't require stitching," Athos said.

"Why's that?" Porthos asked turning his head to face the swordsman.

"We would have had to shave his head. Can you imagine how he would have reacted if he woke and his curls were gone?" Athos said dryly, his plaintive eyes staring up into Porthos'. Porthos snorted a laugh. Porthos accepted the remark for what he knew it was: an offer of comfort. With that comment and that small snort of laughter, the two men looked at each other and relaxed a little for the first time in four days, as they settled themselves in chairs at their brother's side and waited for him to wake up. They were far from certain of Aramis' recovery, but they had found him. They had found him.

Somehow, God, or magic, or fate, or whatever force it was that drew them together and had marked them as equals and brothers - that force had led them to find him.

oOo


	14. Chapter 14

_**A/N: I am constantly overwhelmed by your amazing feedback. Seriously. It's just been so much love which was exactly what I needed the past few weeks, so again, Thank you. Thank you for reading. Thank you for reviewing. Thank you for loving this series and these characters as much as I do. Cheers!**_

* * *

Patience

Chapter 14

It was dark, so dark, but at the same time so light! What devilry made this possible?

The whiteness of the snow burnt his eyes where he was held down against something hard. Dark feathers rained over him as cruel talons tore at his flesh. He struggled, but some ungodly force prevented him from raising his arms. Instead he simply thrashed from side to side in an attempt to deter the vile birds that seared his skin with their fiery talons.

One foul creature turned its head to stare at him. Its blood-red eye searched his soul. Derisive laughter seemed to emanate from the bird as it shrieked its vicious caws. Launching into the air, the bird settled on a man's shoulder – Albert, staring sightlessly at Aramis. Blood still poured from his many wounds.

"What did you do?" the man demanded coldly. Accusation was heavy in each word.

Aramis caught his breath.

"How could you let this happen? You let me die!" the corpse screamed. "You let us all die!"

"No! I'm sorry!" Aramis shouted, fighting harder against the invisible forces restraining his arms and legs. "I tried to fight! There was nothing I could do!"

The corpse and the crow laughed at him as the birds turned and rose en masse to feast on the dead man.

"No!" Aramis screamed, "Get away! Get off of him!"

The dark mass of feathers rose and took the shape of a man. Aramis could feel the cold of the snow as he crouched on the ground. Snow had begun to fall as he watched this man tear his pauldron from his side again.

"Stop! Brother! Please!" Aramis cried, "We have to help them! Please! They can't all be dead! Please brother! Help me! We have to save them! Don't leave…please...don't leave me alone," he begged. The man just turned, his light blue eyes staring at Aramis, that familiar smirk on his face as he slowly melted into the darkness that was growing around him.

"No! Don't leave! MARSAC!" Aramis screamed.

oOo

Porthos and Athos released their hold on Aramis' limbs as the marksman settled again. It had been nearly a day since the surgeon had come and Aramis still had not awoken.

Well, not awoken in a sense to bring comfort to his brothers.

This was the fourth time that Aramis had been pulled from his sleep, thrashing violently and screaming and pleading with invisible figures. His eyes were open, but as his head swept manically around the room, they knew he couldn't see them.

Their words of comfort fell on deaf ears, and all they could do was hold him down on the bed and hope that he didn't hurt himself. The harder they held him, the harder he fought and each waking nightmare ended on that one word: Marsac.

Treville had reported his findings upon his return once the surgeon had left.

Twenty bodies had been recovered.

Twenty musketeers lay covered in the two large wagons that were now resting in the barn of the inn.

Twenty lives had been taken from them, and only Aramis had been left.

"Marsac's body was not among the dead. His pauldron was recovered not far from where we found Aramis," Treville said sadly.

"He couldn't have left them," Porthos said disbelievingly, his voice cracking under the strain of the day.

"Until there is proof otherwise, it looks as though Marsac fled, abandoning his brothers and his duty. He will be branded a traitor and sentenced to death if he is found," said Treville.

Athos had said nothing, yet clenched his fist tighter at his side.

Marsac abandoned them all.

He abandoned Aramis amongst the bodies of twenty dead brothers-in-arms.

He abandoned him for what appeared to be five days based on the surgeon's assessment of the bodies of the other musketeers.

Five days without food, water, or comfort, just the slowly decomposing bodies of his brethren.

Athos didn't care what the King's orders would be. If Athos ever saw Marsac again, it would be his hands that would be taking his life for betraying their brotherhood and abandoning Aramis in those woods.

Porthos wiped at the marksman's forehead with a cool damp cloth.

"He can't keep goin' on like this," he said worriedly. "He's gotta eat something."

"He'll wake," Athos said firmly. He had to.

oOo

It was nearing the end of the second day since the surgeon had visited when Aramis finally showed signs of stirring.

Porthos and Athos gathered near the bed; Captain Treville held back. After all that Aramis had suffered, and clearly continued to suffer, Treville didn't know how he could face the marksman who was now struggling to wake.

"Aramis? Aramis, it's Porthos. Can you hear me?" The man said, taking his hand. "Athos is here too. Can you open your eyes?"

Aramis groaned.

Athos brushed the hair from the marksman's brow and placed his hand on the man's face.

"Aramis, you're safe. We've got you. Open your eyes," Athos said, almost as though issuing an order. Aramis groaned again, his eyelids fluttering as they struggled under the weight of his thick eyelashes. Slowly, the dark brown eyes peeked through.

"Athos…Porthos…" a gravelly voice whispered painfully. A bark of relieved laughter came forward from Porthos. He reached for the water goblet on the table and brought it to the marksman's lips. Athos helped him to raise his head and the man sipped greedily from the glass. He moaned as it was taken from him.

"Easy, easy," said Porthos, "It's been some time since you've had anything to eat or drink. Let that settle and you can have some more."

"Where am I?" he asked groggily, his voice hoarse.

"What can you remember?" asked Treville stepping forward.

At the sight of the Captain, Aramis' eyes bulged, and all the memories came flooding back to him. He desperately fought to push himself upright, Athos and Porthos doing what they could to help. Suddenly, he pitched forward, pressing a shaking hand to his head.

"Careful son, careful," said the Captain.

"Breathe, Aramis, just breathe. Like this," said Porthos as he took the hand that he had been grasping and placed it on his chest. With an effort Aramis calmed and managed to regulate his breathing.

He was pale and sweaty, his sudden weight loss making him look almost wraithlike. Porthos lifted the glass to his lips once more and again he drank before pushing the cup away. It was clear to all three men that he was fading fast.

"We arrived at our campsite without issue. We set up camp. Everything was fine. First day of training went well. Michel and Hugo had first watch. They were supposed to wake Marsac and I in three hours…Don't know what happened. I just had a feeling…something was wrong. Woke Marsac. All of a sudden there was chaos everywhere. We were under attack." Aramis' eyes lost focus as the battle played out again in his mind.

"They must have killed Hugo and Michel first...We had no warning...Half the men…half the men were butchered in their sleep. They were unarmed. Defenceless. It was a training mission on peaceful lands. There was no reason for us to expect an attack. The men who attacked us were dressed in black. I fought their leader…managed to injure him…Something hit me and I went down…Marsac…he pulled me to safety, then everything went black."

Tears had begun to roll down Aramis' cheeks as his eyes began to droop. "When I awoke, there was nothing left. Everyone was dead. And Marsac…he…he…he left. He left me alone. They were all dead. There was nothing I could do. I was alone. He left us...He left me...the crows…"Aramis trailed off as unconsciousness took him.

The three men were silent as they continued to read the fear and devastation that was clearly written on the man's face.

Porthos was the first to move as he turned away from the bed and flung the glass he was still holding against the wall where it shattered. Treville didn't move. Athos remained where he sat on the edge of the bed and gently stroked the marksman's face. He would not show the others the tears that were fighting to escape from the frozen pools of his eyes. "He has pulled his stitches," was all he said.

"I'll fetch the doctor. When he wakes again we should get him to eat something," Treville said hoarsely as he cleared his throat. "I've sent word to the garrison. I plan to return our men to Paris in two days' time." Athos looked up at this.

"With all due respect Captain, Aramis will not be ready to travel in two days," said Athos. His anger had started to simmer, but his face remained impassive.

"I know, but he cannot stay here in this shadow…and the others...take what time you need, then bring him home." Treville turned and left the room and stumbled down the stairs to write the letter to the King that he had been dreading.

oOo

Aramis was woken by his tortured dreams twice more that night and three times the night after. Each time, the fear and violence of Aramis' dreams terrified his brothers who were unable to help.

They had stopped restraining him as that only seemed to make things worse. Instead they repeated calling his name, reaffirming that he was safe. When that didn't work, they simply held him against them and ran their fingers through his hair or rubbed the back of his neck, any kind of action they could offer him to bring him comfort.

It was near dawn when Aramis woke. Athos was lying in the bed next to his. Porthos had fallen asleep in the chair by the bedside. They had taken it in turns to watch over him, but it appeared as though sleep had gotten the better of both of them. He shifted only slightly and Porthos sprang awake.

"Aramis," he breathed as his soft brown eyes took in the haunted looking man.

Aramis cringed and drew back.

"How are you feeling?" Porthos asked and immediately chastised himself for the inane question.

"I'm fine," said Aramis blankly. He stared back at the brawler and Porthos fought the urge to flinch. The dark eyes that stared at him were completely devoid of what was once the insatiable light of the marksman. Gone were any signs of the life, laughter or mischief that usually dwelt in their dark depths. Instead, an emptiness stared back at him, desperate for some sort of meaning, some sort of reassurance. Porthos fought the urge to shudder, but he refused to break eye contact.

"You're not fine," he said, "But you will be." A slow tear fell down his cheek. "I shoulda been there with you," he muttered.

"Then you'd be dead," said Aramis flatly as he wrapped his arms around himself and rolled onto his side away from the stunned larger man. "They're all dead."

oOo


	15. Chapter 15

_**A/N: Well, here we go! I want to thank you all again for reading. You guys are amazing! I live for your reviews - each one is like a ray of sunshine that breaks up my boring corporate day job, so keep them coming if you're so inclined!**_

_**Slight note, though I have no medical training, I have had an awful lot of injuries (I played Varsity Rugby throughout University), and am acquainted with some of their effects, including concussions, broken bones and some pretty gruesome cuts, but I'll beg your forgiveness if any medical practice outlined is inaccurate. Cheers! **_

* * *

Patience

Chapter 15

Treville left the next day. The wagons were ready to bring the bodies of the musketeers back to Paris for their final resting place. Treville bid goodbye to Aramis and with a nod to Porthos and Athos, he left.

Aramis stared after the Captain as his back retreated down the stairs to where the bodies of his men awaited him. In all their years together, it had always been Treville who had helped Aramis right his ship when all the world seemed to be sinking around him. This time, Treville couldn't even stand to look at him.

And Aramis couldn't blame him.

When the Captain looked at him, all he'd see now were the faces of the twenty dead men that he had left in his care.

Twenty men that Aramis had let die.

His face was stony but he was screaming inside.

It was all his fault.

Treville had trusted him and he let him down.

He had let them all down.

Black splotches – or were they feathers? – flared in front of his eyes again and he felt his stomach clench. The curtains remained drawn, but even the light from the hearth aggravated his head at times.

The pain in his body was agony, but again, that was nothing new.

Wasn't his life was about pain?

Pain he understood. Pain he could control. Pain was weakness. Something his father had beaten into him years ago in the days after his mother had died. More pain.

The physical pain Aramis could ignore – he should ignore. Those lessons were well learned. He could push down the aches of his body to the back of his mind as he continued to fight it. He knew he could ignore it and deal with it later if he needed to - but maybe he deserved this pain? Maybe he wasn't meant to fight and suppress these new pains inflicted on his body and mind, but accept them and deal with them?

But how, how was Aramis to deal with it - this savage ache that didn't just ravage the body, but the soul?

How was he to block out the moans of his dying brothers?

How could he wash the images of their unmoving bodies from his mind?

How could he banish the feeling of the brush of feathers from the carrion fowl while they circled his brothers as he fought them from feeding on their bodies?

How could he move past this all-encumbering sense of loss and betrayal?

He had managed a small cup of soup that day after bringing it all up the day before. So far his stomach held strong and had saved Aramis the added embarrassment of vomiting in front of these men once again.

He hated how weak he felt. He hated the hesitation with which these men approached him – as if he were a ghost or so fragile that he might shatter before their eyes.

Wouldn't he though?

He knew he was barely keeping it together. When he closed his eyes he was back out in the snow where the blue tinged faces sobbed with him or yelled at him; where Marsac turned on him amid the steady cries of the dead and the crows and a soft tinkling of buckles.

When his eyes were open they were met by either the warm brown orbs or bright blue ones of Porthos and Athos.

He wanted to run from these men, to hide them from the pitiful creature he had become. He wanted to protect them from the curse he must be carrying. Why had he survived while everyone else had died?

He was cursed with life while those around him were murdered. He couldn't have that same fate for Porthos and Athos. He had to escape.

Maybe he could run to where he could finish his days alone, away from anyone that could be hurt because of him.

He would protect these men – his brothers once, but how could they be brothers now when he barely knew himself?

He would protect them from himself...

oOo

It had been four days since Aramis had woken. Two since Treville had left and six since they had found him. As Athos looked at the man who looked like his brother, though paler and thinner, Athos couldn't help but wonder if they had found him at all. This Aramis was…different.

Athos knew that was wrong to say, but the brown eyes of this man were the lifeless ones that Athos had seen in his dreams. The fire of life – because it was far greater than just a spark – that normally resided in those dark eyes was gone. The humour and the mischief that accompanied the roguish grins and rakish winks were gone.

No, Athos thought, not gone. Lost. And if he was lost, he could be found.

They found him once, Athos was certain that he and Porthos would find their brother again. It would be up to them to help him find his way back to them, and to himself.

oOo

"I'd like to get up," Aramis said. "I'm going outside."

It had been a week since Aramis had woken and he was beyond restless. His side wound was healing well, but he was still deep in the throes of his recovery; even the smallest tasks seemed to exhaust him.

Porthos glanced over his shoulder to where Athos sat.

"I don't need his permission! I'm not a hostage!" Aramis shouted venomously.

Aramis had been irascible since Treville had left, prone to lashing out at his brothers. He was still suffering from those horrible nightmares that he wouldn't share or explain so he woke each morning exhausted. Athos and Porthos were exhausted too as they were by his side, coaxing him to calm down and confirming that he was safe each time the nightmares grew too bad.

He had graduated from broth to stew, but only small portions and even those he struggled to eat. The food had helped him regain some strength and a little of the weight he had lost back, but his features were far too sharp for Porthos' liking.

Most of all, Aramis was vulnerable. He perceived threats where there were none and reacted accordingly. Any sudden movements had him on edge. The feeling of weakness was crippling him, and he was hurting his brothers with his sharp tongue and mistrust.

In his heart Aramis was battling. All he wanted to do was break down at Porthos' and Athos' feet and tell them everything – about that day, about his nightmares, about Marsac…but how could he?

If Marsac had taught him anything now, it was that he was alone. He could trust no one. The brotherhood that he had believed so strongly in was a lie; if it was true, Marsac wouldn't have abandoned him. So Aramis would push these men away – push them until they realized it was for the best and gave up on him. Push them until they abandoned him too, just like Marsac and Treville…

"You are not our prisoner nor our hostage," Athos said unfazed. "You are free to go wherever you would like, however, one of us will always be at your side. We will not be leaving you."

Aramis snorted with derision. "So you're to be my nurse maids? For how long? When will it be enough and this charade end?"

Athos frowned. "I don't know what charade you're speaking of, but once we return to Paris and the doctors have assessed you, I'm sure that you could be rid of us if you'd like. For our part, Porthos and I will remain by your side. Always."

Aramis glared at the swordsman who seemed to have caught the deeper meaning in his words.

"I'm going outside," he said with finality, his brown eyes blazing.

If Athos was perturbed, he didn't show it. In fact, he was leaping for joy on the inside. This was the first active decision Aramis had made and though he was aggravated and angry, there was a trace of the fire and passion that was synonymous with the marksman.

"Excellent," said Porthos, to ease the tension in the room. "Could use a bit of a walk myself. I'll fetch your boots."

Dressing took an exceptionally long time. Aramis insisted on doing everything himself, until his third attempt to fasten the buttons of his doublet had him cry out in frustration. His head was swimming and even from his seated position he swayed. He allowed Athos to fasten the remaining buttons and then stood suddenly before either man could offer their assistance.

The pain in his side lingered as the wound healed, the mending flesh hot and tight. When Aramis had finally assessed the damage and the work of the surgeon, he was frankly shocked that he was still alive. By all means he should have died in those trees, but his stubbornness wouldn't allow the pain to win. Now he was living, but why? For what purpose?

He shook his head, which he realized instantly was a huge mistake as pain flared and dark splotches danced before his vision. He stumbled backwards a step but was caught by a large firm hand on his elbow. He looked into the soft brown eyes of Porthos and nearly smiled. Instead, he pulled his elbow away sharply and shakily crossed the room to the door, ignoring the new wound he had inflicted on Porthos.

oOo

It was nearing dusk as the musketeers finally made their way outside. The stairs were a nightmare as Aramis grimaced on every step as his stitches pulled and his head swam but he refused any help. There was a long pause as he centred himself at the bottom. His first step faltered, but Athos was there to catch him.

"You don't have to do this alone," the blue eyes seemed to say.

"I am alone," the angry brown eyes answered.

They exited the inn just before dusk, which was ideal as the fading light would be easier on the marksman's recovering senses. Still, he kept his head down and his hat pulled low.

"Perhaps you'd like to visit the stables?" Porthos suggested, knowing the affinity Aramis' had had for his own horse.

Aramis nodded and they crossed the expanse to the stables. Upon seeing the cart resting outside the gates, Aramis halted.

"I will not be returning to Paris in that cart Athos. You will need to bind me, gag me and render me unconscious first," he said, gearing up for a fight.

"Of course," said Athos. "but it is a long ride to Paris, and you are not yet able to sit a horse for the length of our trip. There will be times when you may need to ride with one of us, and I should ask you not to fight us on this. We are only concerned for your safety, brother."

Aramis did not to acknowledge that statement and quickly went inside. There was something in Athos' gaze and the way that he said that last word that almost unsettled the musketeer. He was glad that the stable afforded some darkness so he could gather himself.

Seeing Roger and Flip standing eagerly in the stables brought more pain to Aramis. He had ridden his Fleur out on this mission. The attackers had stolen or slaughtered whatever horses they had found, but Aramis knew his Fleur would have pulled herself free. She would have escaped. A tear came to his eye and he was startled by a soft nuzzle and snort at his cheek. Before he could stop it, a soft laugh burst forth from his lips at the unexpected touch.

"Hello beautiful," he said as he stroked the neck of the beautiful mare in the stall next to him. She lowered her head and stared at him, her brown eyes piercing his. She lifted her face over his shoulder and pulled the marksman closer as though bringing him into an embrace. The man stumbled, but caught himself by throwing his arms around her neck.

"Whoa now! Easy girl," he muttered with a warmth that the other two drank in like desert wanderers at an oasis. "You certainly know what you want," he said as he continued to stroke the mare's neck.

"You should be careful, monsieur. That horse is temperamental. She doesn't trust well," said the stable boy.

"That's because she's a queen and should be treated as such," Aramis said as Porthos handed him a currycomb so he could brush her mane. "There now, beauty, that's better." He stepped backwards and the horse whinnied and tossed her mane as though acknowledging Aramis' compliment. The marksman grinned back at the horse as he stroked her velvet nose. "What's her name?" he asked.

"Bella," said the boy.

Porthos laughed, "You guessed it!"

Aramis gave him a soft smile, but then sobered instantly. Porthos' face fell at that sudden withdrawal.

Aramis turned back to the horse and whispered something to her in Spanish, before turning on his heel and leaving the stable without another word. Porthos cast a desperate look at Athos, who simply shrugged in response and followed in Aramis' wake.

As they approached the inn, Aramis stumbled again. Porthos caught him and Aramis tried to pull away.

"Please. Stop. I'm just tryin' to help you," he all but shouted at the man.

"I can do this on my own!" Aramis said, matching Porthos' tone.

"The point is, you don't have to," said Athos. "You are not alone Aramis."

Aramis felt his heart break at the subtle plea in Athos' voice. He turned away and marched inside, determined to not let the others see him quiver in his resolve.

How could he trust Athos' words when he knew that things would end only one of two ways: Aramis would either get them killed, or they would abandon him.

oOo

_**A/N: I wasn't originally inspired by this song's lyrics to write the next part of this story, but as I've been reviewing and revising it, I suddenly can't get them out of my head. So for the next little bit, let's remember the iconic lyrics to "He Ain't Heavy, He's My Brother" by Bobby Scott and Bob Russell. I googled the origin of the song and was kind of blown away by how on point it turned out to be. **_

_**The pair were introduced by Johnny Mercer at a club, and though they only met three times (Bob Russell was dying from lymphoma), they managed to write this song together. Souls can recognize their kin, and some eternal brotherhoods can be formed in only three meetings.: **_

_**The road is long, with many of winding turns**_  
_**That lead us to (who knows) where, who knows where?**_  
_**But I'm strong, strong enough to carry him - yeah**_  
_**He ain't heavy - he's my brother**_

_**So long we go, his welfare is my concern**_  
_**no burden is he to bear, we'll get there**_  
_**But I know he would not encumber me**_  
_**He ain't heavy - he's my brother**_

_**If I'm leaving at all, if I'm leaving with sadness**_  
_**that everyone's heart isn't filled with the gladness**_  
_**of love for one another.**_

_**It's a long, long road, from which there is no return**_  
_**While we're on the way to there, why not share?**_  
_**And the long doesn't way me down at all**_  
_**He ain't heavy - he's my brother**_

_**He's my brother - he ain't heavy - he's my brother ...**_


	16. Chapter 16

Patience

Chapter 16

Days later, Porthos and Athos once again found themselves following Aramis back up to their room as they returned from the stables. He still struggled slightly as he went up the stairs. The road back to Paris would be a hard one and Porthos wished that the marksman would just agree to take the cart back. They would be leaving the next day. Porthos knew that Athos was planning the way home to bring them to an inn for each night's rest, though that would extend their journey by two days and would still require long hours in the saddle.

Aramis collapsed heavily onto the bed, frustrated by the exertion of his climb. He was doing much better, but the after effects from his injuries still lingered.

"You'll need to let me check your wound," Athos said and Aramis scowled but said nothing.

It was hard for Porthos to watch Aramis treat Athos this way. He knew how much Athos cared for Aramis and how greatly the marksman had loved his brother. He couldn't understand why he was acting like this.

And an act it was. There had been one or two brief flashes of the old Aramis over the past few days, but they had been snuffed out as quickly as a candle by the marksman as soon as he had registered them. It was as if he was intentionally trying to keep them at a distance.

He was hurting, but his insistence on pushing them away was not making matters better.

Plus, it was not working.

It would never work.

Porthos and Athos swore to each other the night they found Aramis that he would never be alone again. Disgusted with Marsac's abandonment of their brother in need, they swore that as long as one of them drew breath, Aramis would never need to feel alone again. He would always know that they were by his side or would be coming for him. The more the marksman seemed to realize this, the harder he pushed them.

Aramis had lifted his shirt from where he sat on the bed and Athos swore as he spied a slight trickle of red.

"It looks like you may have torn one of your stitches. I think we should call for the doctor."

"Don't," said Aramis bitterly dropping his shirt to cover the wound. "They should be coming out anyway." He folded his arms defensively and glared at Athos.

"Aramis..."

"Just stop Athos! Just stop! I don't need the doctor, i don't need you, I don't need anyone!" he spat miserably and glared at the men before him. The pain in his voice was obvious.

Porthos watched Athos stare back at the man, for a moment lost for words, and before his eyes, the unthinkable happened: Athos finally broke down. He couldn't watch the brother he loved suffer any longer.

"Why won't you let me help you?" he said softly. "You trusted me once before," he said, as tears finally broke past the stoic mask and fell from the blue eyes.

Aramis bit his lip, and instinctively shifted his arms as though to reach for Athos as a fire flared in his eyes. His arms froze but the fire in his eyes remained as he processed Athos and then looked away. Slowly, due in large part to Athos and Porthos' determination, bits of the marksman had begun to drift back as his body and his mind began to heal. He had still not told them of his dreams that woke him screaming and sweating each night, but hints of the true marksman were found as he groomed or took Bella out for rides.

He dared a glance at Athos' face once more.

"I'm not him Aramis," Athos insisted, "I'm not Marsac. I would never abandon you," said Athos, his blue eyes desperate and earnest.

Aramis looked at the tears that were silently falling down Athos' face, as his own tears slowly fell to match. Aramis knew how deep Athos kept his emotions buried, so to finally see these vulnerable tears fall from his strong and silent brother was more than he could bear.

He was exhausted.

He couldn't fight anymore.

"You don't know that," he muttered hoarsely, his heart finally relinquishing the fears and doubts he had acquired on that day in the snow. "**_He_** did. I was alone Athos...For five days I sat there with the dead, fighting my sanity and the crows...He left me Athos. Left me with their voices. I can still hear them…"

Athos grasped the man. "I swear to you brother, as long as I draw breath, I will always do everything in my power to protect you. You are not alone Aramis. You will never be alone again. Please brother, let us help you. Please."

Athos was on his knees, desperately clutching the marksman's hand. Porthos stood rooted to the spot, his breathing forgotten.

"Marsac…" Aramis said softly.

"We're not him. You've got to trust us, brother," Athos interrupted, the pain and anguish obvious in his voice, which was usually unwavering and practiced. Porthos took a seat on the bed on the marksman's other side and carefully took his free hand in his and stroked it gently.

"I can't," said Aramis miserably, his voice rife with pain.

"You have to Aramis. You have to try," said Porthos meekly. "This isn't you. I know you. I can still see you in there. Don't shut your heart down. It's who you are! You love Aramis! You love and you trust and you laugh! You laugh Aramis!" His own tears were cascading down his cheeks. "I don't know why this happened, and I don't know why he left you, but Athos is right, we aren't him. We will never betray you or abandon you. Trust us, brother!"

Aramis dropped his head. "I can hear them," he said softly, "and I can see them…in my dreams…and sometimes when my eyes are open. Some are angry and some are sad, but they all ask the same question. Why me? Why was I spared and they were not…and I have no answer for them," he said desperately looking from one face to the other for an answer.

The silence lingered until finally Athos spoke. "I don't know why you were spared Aramis. Twenty good men were taken that day, but I will never for one moment not be grateful that you were not among them. That somehow something led Porthos and I to find you. You were meant to live Aramis. There is much left for you to do, for us to do together. You were meant to live for every life that was taken. Live for them. Live for us, Aramis, but mostly, you need to live for yourself."

"I don't know that I can," he said finally, quietly, desperately.

"You can. We'll help you," Porthos said firmly, his own now familiar fire blazing in his chest as he made this vow to his brothers.

It would be hard. Aramis would have a lot to overcome, but he and Athos would not give up on the man.

As hard as Aramis had tried to fight it, this invisible force that bound the three of them together would not let him sever those ties. They were brothers. True brothers. They would help Aramis find his way back. It would take some time, but they would be patient. And lord knows, Porthos could be patient.

Aramis was silent for a few moments, struggling, battling, fighting against some inner turmoil. Finally he exuded a bitter, shaky sob and sigh and slowly raised his tear stained face to his brothers. What they saw in his eyes had both men catching their breath. Behind the tears and the lingering pain and fear, the unmistakable, unquenchable love of their brother stared back at them. "All for one?" he whispered hoarsely.

"And one for all," they replied without hesitating, each one tightly clenching the marksman's hands in theirs.

oOo

It was a long and emotional night. All three men poured forth their hearts, finally permitting themselves and each other to be vulnerable. Athos and Porthos listened patiently to Aramis as he went through every excruciating detail of the attack and his nightmares. Porthos had joined Aramis on the bed. He paused many times, but each time he did, he felt the comforting contact of Porthos' arm around his shoulders or Athos' hand on his knee.

He spent the last hour just sobbing until his tear ducts ran dry. This room and this inn had become a bit of a sanctuary for Aramis, and Athos and Porthos were worried about how his return to Paris might impact his recovery. The deep emotions and empathy of their brother had returned, but they were a long way away from the cheerful and vibrant man that the marksman once was. How would he be able to cope under the gaze of so many faces?

Finally, emotionally exhausted, Aramis fell asleep, curled up against Porthos' side. For the first night since they had found him, Aramis didn't wake from a nightmare, but slept soundly at Porthos' side.

oOo


	17. Chapter 17

Patience

Chapter 17

Aramis sat on the inn's porch as Porthos packed their bags onto the horses.

"Why are you grinning?" Aramis asked after Porthos glanced his way for the third time that morning.

"Nothin'. It's nothin'. Just glad to see you at least almost looking like yourself again. You're still too skinny though. Wonder how upset your ladies at court will be with me, though I'm sure there'll be a few just desperate to fatten you up," he said, and once again, for the first time in weeks, Porthos saw that familiar gleam of humour return to the marksman's eye as the corner of his mouth twitched, though he didn't say anything.

The night before had been exhausting for all of them. Porthos wasn't a praying man, but he was a pretty good gambler. It was too soon to know where Aramis was at, but he knew that if they could just bide their time for a bit longer their winning hand was bound to come up.

Athos walked over leading the beautiful chestnut mare to where the other horses stood. She tossed her mane angrily and snorted at Athos, who hitched her to the post next to the others.

Porthos grinned. "Guess that's why they said she's temperamental."

Athos just raised an eyebrow in warning at Porthos.

Aramis stood and approached the horse and began stroking her neck and behind her ears. "Goodbye beautiful. Thank you for all your help. Eres uno de mis salvadores, mi Bella," he said as the horse nuzzled his neck.

"There's no reason for you to say goodbye yet," Athos said. Aramis looked at Athos, his brow furrowed as he held Bella by her bridle.

"She's yours," Athos said, a soft smile on his face as he saw the joy and excitement that sprang to his brother's eyes. It was another glimpse at the old Aramis that they knew was desperate to break free.

"Athos…what? How?" stammered the marksman incredulously.

"I bought her for you. She's helped to bring you back as far as Porthos and I have. She was drawn to your heart the same way that we were," he said.

"And she sure doesn't like Athos," snorted Porthos.

"As I recall, she bit you two days ago," Athos said, his eyes flashing at Porthos.

"Oh ya…" Porthos said, "Not hard though," he justified. "Anyway, she suits you. You say you like fiery women."

Again, the horse nuzzled Aramis' neck affectionately, her snorts tossing his unruly dark locks.

"Athos…thank you," Aramis said speechlessly.

"Well you said no to the cart, and we weren't going to make you walk back to Paris," Athos drawled, a smirk on his lips.

Aramis snorted a laugh and grinned. Another step towards recovery, Athos thought as he swung himself onto his saddle on Roger. Porthos mounted Flip and fell behind Athos. Aramis stood next to his Bella as she tossed her mane majestically.

He placed his hand on the pommel of his saddle and his boot into the stirrup. He lifted himself gracefully into his seat. He took a deep breath as the world settled again. For the first time in ages Aramis felt almost normal. He was on horseback and riding back to Paris with his brothers at his side. He kept his eyes fixed forward and prayed that he would one day be able to recover from the horrors of Savoy.

Maybe...maybe it could be possible…maybe with these two men at his side he'd find a way to move forward.

Bella nickered below him and with a pat to her neck and some pressure from his knees, she quickened her pace so he took his place at Athos' right side.

oOo

The closer the trio got to Paris, the more tense Aramis seemed to become. Whether this was from the strain of the ride or his fear of returning to the garrison, Porthos could not tell.

They ate together in the various dining rooms of the inns they stayed at on their return. Porthos was glad to see that Aramis was at least making attempts at eating though he still struggled to finish more than half a portion of anything. He was making an effort to engage in their quiet conversations and to make small talk with the other patrons they met, taking some solace in his anonymity. He still caught the attention of any bar maid who passed their table, but Aramis only ducked his head and hid his haunted eyes as they fluttered their eyelashes in his direction. Both men desperately missed the buoyant cheer, the tall tales, lively conversation and the natural charisma and charm of the marksman, but they were glad of whatever he was able to offer them.

They took the final day of their return at an easy pace and entered the city after night had fallen. The garrison was almost empty, save for Treville and Serge. The old cook smiled at them all as they dismounted.

"Wanted to know if you'd be hungry when you got here," he said simply. "You're as skinny as the day I met you," he said, his eyes on Aramis.

Aramis gave Serge a small smile.

The cook looked at him for a long moment, then surprising everyone, put his arms around Aramis and pulled him into a tight embrace. "I'm sorry you had to go through this lad, but I'm glad that God sent you back to us."

Aramis' eyes were troubled as the cook released him, but he made no comment in reply. He cast his eyes up to where Treville stood silently looking down at them from his balcony, before heading to his rooms in the barracks with Athos.

Porthos stood with Serge in the courtyard staring after them.

"Sorry 'bout that," said Porthos. "He's back…he's just not quite himself yet…"

"That's where you come in," Serge said wisely. "I've known Aramis a long time. Been looking after him, chasin' him, laughin' with him and worryin' about him for years now. Seen him near death more times than I care to think about. But this is different. His body's gonna heal, but he's gonna need you and Athos to help heal his mind. To show him who he is. Show him that he's loved and why this all is still worth it."

Porthos nodded looking at the sage cook.

"You've been a soldier long enough Porthos. Infantry. You know as well as I that some men don't make it back from something like this," Serge said. "Don't let Aramis be one of them. He's got too much life and good and trouble left in him to let him just slip away. Promise me Porthos. Promise me you'll help him find his way back."

"We're trying," said Porthos desperately.

"I know," said the cook with a sad smile. "Just gotta be patient. I've set out some bread and cheese for the three of you in his rooms. Make sure he eats some too, alright?" he said, with a teasing grin before he too made his way to his rooms.

Porthos stared up at Treville where he still stood at his balcony. The man looked nearly as haunted as Aramis had in that moment when they rode through the gates.

Porthos was almost certain that the Captain wasn't seeing him, though it looked as though his sight was trained on the courtyard. Not for the first time, Porthos wondered at Treville's oddly absent treatment of Aramis. Porthos could see the pain and worry in his eyes; he knew that Treville looked at Aramis almost like a son. He was the Captain's second in everything but title.

Porthos shook his head.

That was before Savoy.

Porthos doubted very much whether Aramis would ever be comfortable taking that official leadership role again. He knew how big of a challenge it was going to be to get Aramis to even resume his role as a musketeer, and it would be even more difficult if Treville continued to be standoffish.

As though the Captain had heard Porthos' admonishment, he turned suddenly and walked into his office.

Porthos shook his head and went to find Athos and Aramis in Aramis' quarters.

oOo

Porthos entered the tense silence of the marksman's room. The tray of food laid out by Serge remained untouched sitting in the no man's land between Athos and Aramis.

Porthos bullied himself into the room, hoping to dispel some of the intensity as he did so.

"How are ya feeling?" Porthos asked, adding quickly, "I know I'm stiff from the ride."

"I'm quite fine, mon ami," Aramis said in an oddly terse manner. "I was just explaining that to Athos. I think I only need to rest. Alone." The marksman smiled at Porthos but Porthos couldn't help but frown. The smile was familiar, the tone was too, but there was something off about both, something about the demeanour of the marksman that just felt so wrong.

It was as though Aramis had somehow slipped on a mask and all the progress that he and Athos had made over the last few weeks seemed to fly out the window.

Porthos looked at Athos who stared stonily back. He knew the cogs were turning in the swordsman's mind, but he would not be able to voice them in front of Aramis. Not yet at any rate.

"Well…you should at least eat somethin'. Promised Serge you would," Porthos said.

"Of course," said Aramis brightly, plucking a grape off the platter. Porthos frowned even deeper. Athos sighed and stood from the table.

"Are you sure you won't need us? My room is right next door," Athos said.

"Of course not. Sweet dreams to you both," Aramis said as he ushered them out the door and closed it behind them with a snap.

Athos and Porthos looked at each other as they stood out in the hallway.

"I'll take the first shift," Porthos said. Athos nodded at him and with a pat on the shoulder he retreated to his own room to wrestle with his thoughts on this new situation.

Porthos took a seat on the floor outside the marksman's room, his back pressed up against the door. Aramis had still been plagued by nightmares on their return journey, and if this night were to be anything like the nights before, Porthos was determined to be on hand at the first sign of stress.

oOo

Aramis closed his door on Porthos and Athos and made his way over to his bed. He was exhausted. The ride, though at a relaxed pace, had proved to be more taxing than he had imagined. And with every step that Bella had taken to carry him closer to his destination, the more his anxiety grew.

As they had entered the garrison gates, the weight of all that had been lost, the twenty good men, seemed to fall once more squarely upon his shoulders. The garrison had felt empty to him for the first time in his life. The lack of merry voices was stark and only drove home the enormity of their depleted numbers.

He had nearly broken down in the arms of Serge – the old man offering comfort and empathy.

Treville on the other hand did not react. He watched them enter the garrison and stood like a gargoyle from Notre Dame leaning on and judging from the balcony's railing.

He knew that Treville had an impossible task now – replacing the men that Aramis had let die. But how could you replace Yves' goofy grin or the loud laughter of Maurice at the tavern?

Aramis was fearful for the response of the others when he would finally face them. He feared their anger, but he feared their pity more than anything, and in that moment of darkness, he had decided to fight their pity. He would combat their piteous glances with mirth and cheer the way he used to. The way they expected him to. He drew that cloak tightly about him and let it settle as he and Athos had entered his rooms.

If Athos had noticed the change he didn't say anything, but Aramis was certain he had picked up on it immediately. He knew those eyes too well for them to be able to hide his thoughts on the matter. Confusion and hurt seemed to reign there, but this would be part of his self-preservation – something Athos should have been very familiar with. Did he not wear a cool mask of ambivalence to keep others at arm's length?

He stared at the closed wood door and frowned. He knew that either Porthos or Athos would be waiting outside. He knew they were fearful of his nightmares and would want to be on hand so as not to disturb the entire garrison as the ghosts of his brethren plagued him each night.

They shouldn't have bothered, Aramis thought. He wouldn't be sleeping this night. Not in this place, where they had broken bread on countless occasions together. Where their memories lingered…

Aramis drew the candle on the side table a little closer to the bed. Drawing his knees up into his chest he reached for his rosary beads and began to pray. "Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and in the hour of our death…"

oOo

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_**A/N: **_Eres uno de mis salvadores, mi Bella - You are one of my saviours, my Bella


	18. Chapter 18

_**A/N: Wow! We've hit 100 reviews! Thanks so much! I know I'm a little late in posting this week - fighting off the final overtures of flu season before allergy season hits :-P **_

_** Thank you so much for reading!**_

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Patience

Chapter 18

It was just after dawn when Aramis rose from his bed. He hadn't slept; he watched as the candle burned down to its nub and went out with a soft hiss just as the sun began to peek through the clouds.

He stood in front of the small looking glass that hung on his wall and for the first time in weeks, he got a good look at his appearance. He was glad to have his hair cut and beard trimmed before his return to garrison. He looked pretty much the same - save for his eyes, where the horrors of Savoy still lingered in their dark depths. The cut from the blow to his head was almost completely healed – the small scar was easily hid by his hairline. His cheeks were still a little more sunken than he was used to, but that would soon be remedied if his appetite ever returned. The dark circles under his eyes couldn't be helped. He plastered a grin on his face and was about to reach for the door handle when he stopped.

He couldn't do it. He wasn't able to face them yet. Not at muster.

He couldn't stand at the head of that group of men with so many searching eyes boring into him.

He wasn't ready. Not yet.

He fell backwards into one of the chairs at his table. The food from Serge remained untouched.

There was a soft knock on the door and Athos entered.

"Porthos has gone to fetch some breakfast," he said simply. "Were you able to sleep at all?"

Aramis considered his answer. "I'm glad to be back," he responded. He wasn't sure if that was a lie or not.

Athos frowned at his non-answer, but did not challenge him. "The doctor will be by later today to assess you. He will probably say that it's time to remove those stitches –"

"Something I've been saying for a few days now," Aramis said a little testily.

"I need you to be honest with the doctor, Aramis. I can tell your head is still bothering you – that you're still suffering from the side effects of your concussion and you can't pretend as though the journey back has not exacted its toll," Athos continued. The marksman said nothing.

There was a pause.

"What time will he be arriving?" Aramis asked slowly.

"This morning. Sometime after muster."

Aramis nodded.

"Will you be joining us?" Athos asked softly.

"No," said Aramis.

Both men weighed that question and its response and searched it for any kind of meaning. Athos chastised himself for his reckless choice of words and Aramis pondered what he had meant by his automatic refusal. They both stared at the table, lost in thought, until Porthos entered with steaming bowls of porridge on a tray.

"Know it's not your favourite, but Serge sent some of this along with it," said Porthos as he set the bowl in front of Aramis with a small jar of honey and some cinnamon alongside it. He passed a second bowl to Athos and set the third before himself.

Aramis picked up his spoon and toyed unenthusiastically with the contents of the bowl.

"You've got to eat at least some of it, or else you'll have Serge to answer to," said Athos, attempting a jest. Aramis raised his eyebrow, a flash of rage passing so quickly through his eyes that it was hard to tell if it was actually there or not.

Aramis took the spoon and spitefully finished the whole bowl. Having Athos and Porthos coddling him was bad enough. He didn't need the extra attention of Serge as well. He didn't want the attention of anyone, frankly.

Porthos let out a huge yawn.

"It seems as though the two of you did not get much rest last night. I expect that the floor outside my room isn't quite comfortable," Aramis said, his eyes flashing a little menacingly.

"We promised you that you wouldn't be alone," said Porthos.

"I'm fine – " Aramis began, but Porthos cut him off.

"You're not fine, 'Mis. No one's expectin' ya to be. And even if you were, that doesn't change the vow we made," said Porthos.

"You can't camp outside my door forever," he said flatly.

"We don't expect to need to," Porthos replied. "But in case you do need us, we'll be there. No matter what," he said, his brown eyes burning.

Aramis looked away. It was so easy to let his guard down with these two. There were times when things felt almost normal on the road home, but being back at the garrison was too alien for him now.

They ignored the sounds of the others readying for muster and kept up a steady stream of conversation. Somehow, the pair managed to extract a small smile from Aramis, despite his best efforts. He felt safe with these two. They had already witnessed him at his worst - they were the ones who could coax him from his tormented dreams when they sunk in. He had little left to hide from them, save the new fears that were bubbling up inside of him since he returned through that garrison gate – but these fears were his own and he could keep them under his control.

He would not burden Athos and Porthos with his new troubles.

He had a plan.

oOo

The doctor stepped outside the infirmary when he had finished examining Aramis and made his way to Treville's office. Porthos knocked on the infirmary door and entered as Aramis pulled on his doublet. Perhaps for the first time, he noticed that there was something distinctly missing from Aramis – his elegantly tooled pauldron was nowhere to be seen.

"How'd it go?" Porthos asked.

Aramis frowned. "As well as could be expected," he said, stowing something in his pocket. "Headaches are expected to linger for a while longer," he said glumly, "But I will be permitted to return to light duty around the garrison in a few days. Apparently I'm supposed to rest and recover my strength," he said, a bitter tone matching the anger in his eyes.

"Did you want to head out for some air in the courtyard? It's pretty empty with most of the men on duty right now," he said.

Aramis considered the offer and nodded. He couldn't stay barricaded in his room forever. Best to ease into seeing the others, he thought.

They entered the courtyard and took a seat at their normal table. Aramis winced at the bright light and cursed a little under his breath. He lowered his hat and focused on the four cadets who were training with swords. The four, plus Porthos and the four others out on duty were all that was left of the musketeers' cadets.

Spotting him, two musketeers jogged up to Aramis. Porthos tensed slightly, unsure as to how Aramis would react.

"Aramis!" called one.

"Bernard!" Aramis returned brightly. Portrhos jumped in surprise.

"God, are we glad to see you. How are you feeling?" asked the man.

"Fit and fine," Aramis said with a broad grin that didn't reach his eyes.

The musketeers beamed back. "The doc letting you back on duty?"

"Soon," Aramis said, "Though there're a few lovely creatures that may delay my return a bit."

The men laughed. "It's good to see you back…after everything," the other musketeer repeated.

Aramis stiffened at those words but he offered another false smile that seemed to placate the others. "Thanks. It's good to be back."

The pair clapped him on the shoulder and headed out for their duty through the gates.

As they left, Aramis slouched in his seat. The first challenge was over. He looked next to him to see Porthos frowning at him, his eyes dark.

"I'm going to see Bella," he said and left the table without another comment.

Porthos stared after him, but did not follow. He didn't know what this new incarnation of Aramis was. This false smiling and fake joviality was almost more frightening to Porthos than the morose man that they had been with at the inn. The ease with which Aramis had put on that performance and the willingness of the others to believe it left a sour taste in Porthos' mouth. At least back at the inn, in all his misery and pain, Aramis was authentic.

Porthos looked up as Athos marched down the stairs. He had been summoned to Treville's office along with the doctor.

"Where's Aramis?" he asked quizzically when he saw Porthos sitting alone.

"That's a damn good question. His body's in the stable, but I couldn't tell you where his head's at," said Porthos darkly.

Athos frowned. "I've just spoken with Treville and the doctor. The doctor has concerns regarding his head injury. He thinks it'll be a few weeks yet before Aramis should return to any kind of duty. What concerned him more was the state of Aramis' mind. I'm not sure what he may have said to the doctor, but it was enough for him to mention it to Treville."

"Is Treville gonna talk to him?" Porthos asked.

Athos paused. "No, I don't think so. He's...giving Aramis space. I'm not sure why, but I think it has something to do with the Captain's guilt."

"It's not right," grumbled Porthos. "Aramis needs him."

"Well he has us," said Athos resolutely. "I'm not sure how we can help him, but I refuse to let him hide behind this mask he's adopted for long."

"But what are we gonna do?" Porthos asked.

"I don't know. Just support him, comfort him – antagonize him if nothing else will work. If he doesn't deal with his emotions, we're going to lose him Porthos – and I don't just mean from the regiment."

"You saw he's stopped wearing his pauldron too, eh?"

Athos nodded.

"I'm scared Athos," Porthos said looking into his eyes.

Athos frowned. "He didn't sleep last night. We'll need to watch him. It'll be hard. Treville wants us to return to duty in two days."

Porthos shook his head. "Maybe we came back here too early."

"No," said Athos. "Aramis will need to confront what's hurting him; if he's going to find his way back, it's got to be here."

oOo


	19. Chapter 19

_**A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews and continuing to stick with this story. He has a plan...but that doesn't mean it's a good one...**_

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Patience

Chapter 19

The days passed quickly. Aramis spent much of his time in the armoury or with Bella and the other horses in the stables. When confronted by the other musketeers, all of whom were simply relieved to see him back in the garrison after the devastating loss of so many, Aramis slipped that false mask of humour and joviality back in place. Porthos couldn't believe that no one else realized the insincerity of it all, but that was probably due in large part to their genuine relief to see him again. But to Athos and Porthos, seeing the pantomime play out before them was too much.

Aramis had slowly been assigned to more and more tasks around the garrison. Athos and Porthos had been maintaining their vigil in shifts outside his door at nights. His nightmares had seemed to have stopped, but it was getting harder and harder to rouse the medic, and each morning he seemed to be more exhausted than the night before.

Though they had been back for more than a week, it was still a shock to Athos and Porthos when they heard Aramis agreeing to join some of the others at a tavern. The moment they walked through the garrison gates the men could tell something was off...Aramis looked exhausted.

He smiled at them with a manic gleam in his eyes, a dangerous spark that didn't sync up with his wide grin. In a weird way, there was a desperation in his eyes that had Porthos' stomach nervously churning, but when Aramis made no effort to speak with them, Athos and Porthos were forced to follow along in the wake of the other men who were ecstatic to have the seemingly jovial marksman among them, no matter how blatantly false the humour was to the brothers who knew him best.

Inside the tavern, Aramis put on quite the show: he told outrageous stories, laughed loudly and grew far drunker than he normally would. As he stood to leave, extricating himself from the barmaid who had draped herself around his neck, the others protested. He apologized, but rewarded his fans with one of his flourishing bows, before he turned to stumble out of the tavern. None of the drunken musketeers gathered seemed to notice the pain and anger that was harboured in those dark eyes.

Porthos and Athos slipped out of the bar behind him and followed as he stumbled away from the tavern. He staggered down the dark labyrinthine streets of Paris until he emerged near the banks of the Seine where he stopped with his hands on his knees and upheaved much of the copious amount of wine he had consumed into the gutter. He straightened, staggered forward and leaned heavily on the balustrade separating him from the swift current.

Porthos and Athos exchanged a worried glance – based on his odd behaviour, the excessive wine and the reckless anger in his eyes, Aramis was standing far too close to the river's edge for their liking. The two strode forward and stood on either side of him.

"Go away," he slurred without looking at them, his words low and bitter.

"'Mis –"

"I said go away," he repeated, cutting Porthos off, his tone rising slightly.

The trio stood in silence, but Athos and Porthos did not move.

"Stop it!" Aramis snapped, spinning to glare at the two who remained at his side.

"Stop it!" he repeated angrily, grabbing Athos by his doublet. He spun the swordsman around and pressed him backwards so he was leaning precariously over the railing that separated them from the Seine. "Stop it! Just stop it Athos! I can hear you judging me. Like I don't know your looks! Like I haven't carried you away from the Seine on countless nights!" Athos didn't react.

"Aramis…" growled Porthos warningly. The marksman glared at him over his shoulder. His pressure on Athos didn't relinquish.

"And what?! You too think that you can judge me?" he snarled.

Athos grabbed Aramis' wrists suddenly and said fiercely, "We just want to help you!"

The marksman scoffed, threw Athos' hands off him and turned away. "I'm fine! I don't need your help!" he shouted and pointed over his shoulder, his hand shaking violently. "You saw the others – they're perfectly happy with me the way I am!"

"But that's not _YOU_, Aramis!" Porthos shouted back. Aramis stilled and then turned slowly to face him.

"And what do you know about me? You barely knew me a month before this," he hissed, his voice menacing and cruel.

Pain surged in Porthos' chest, but he didn't back down.

"You told me that we would be brothers - That your soul knew mine! Well mine knows yours too, but I don't know this – whatever this is! You're scared," Porthos said to him, his voice full of pain. "You're hidin' and it's killin' you! The Aramis I knew was true. His heart was open and he was real. He didn't hide behind a mask! I don't know who this is…this is a coward. Those men that fell in Savoy? They wouldn't know you. You're abandoning'em! You're abandoning us all! You're doing just as Marsac did," he said.

There was a pause, and the silence that followed seemed to last for an eternity.

And then, stepping forward, Aramis punched Porthos with all the force he could muster.

Porthos hit the ground and Aramis stood over him panting heavily.

Without another word or a look at the prone man, Aramis turned on his heel and marched off, leaving a stunned Athos to deal with the unconscious Porthos.

oOo

Aramis stormed back to his rooms at the garrison. He hadn't returned to his private apartments in the city yet – the need to hear the movements and life of the others was too strong. When he reached his room, he slammed the door. His hands were shaking.

He pulled a bottle of brandy from his cabinet and helped himself to another drink. He paced the well-worn carpet and compulsively ran his hand through his hair. Porthos' words echoed in his mind. His anger grew as he replayed them again and again as he paced.

Who was Porthos to say things like that? How dare he accuse Aramis of cowardice and falsehood! He hadn't seen the bodies that were left lying in the snow!

But he did, Aramis remembered.

It was Porthos who had found Aramis where he lay. It was Porthos who cradled his body by the warm fire to force the heat back through his veins and it was Porthos who sat through his nightmares every night, holding the marksman to his chest. It was his and Athos' voices that had begun to call him back from the darkness; it was their voices telling him that he was safe, and somehow managed to penetrate when the nightmares took hold.

But he wasn't having nightmares anymore. He had seen to that.

He stepped towards the bed and pulled a small vial from the side table drawer. He had taken the vial when the doctor had completed his first assessment when they had arrived back at garrison. It had been full at the time, but the bottle was far emptier now than he had expected.

He knew the others might get suspicious if more went missing from the infirmary but he didn't care...maybe they wouldn't even notice - they hadn't yet...or maybe they had, but knew, like he did, that this was the only way he'd be able to fight off the ghosts that haunted him and maybe always would...

Aramis unstoppered the top and added a casual amount to his brandy – sometimes it was just a few drops, other times, like tonight, it was harder to measure. The brown liquid sank to the bottom of his glass so he gave it a quick swirl before downing the contents.

Aramis had known he wouldn't be able to fight the nightmares while in the garrison. He had made his plan while on the road back and had been keeping his nights silent by dosing himself with the brown liquid. Athos and Porthos weren't any the wiser - they still camped outside his bedroom just in case he needed them. But like he said by that bank of the Seine, he didn't need them...he just needed to sleep! Athos more than anyone should understand his need to escape the ghosts of the brothers that now haunted him. Wasn't that part of the reason he had tried to drown his own troubles so often?

He lay down on the bed, the room spinning around him, partly caused by the drug, partly by the wine, partly by the pain and anger he was feeling. He let the drugs take him with Porthos' words still chasing themselves through his mind.

oOo

He woke suddenly just after dawn, without nightmares but without resting either – one of the effects of the drug. The body was technically at rest, but the remainder of him was on edge as groggy, incoherent dreams plagued his mind. The phantoms of Savoy remained, but the drugs prevented him from crying out and alerting the whole regiment.

As the days had passed, waking up to the aftereffects of the drug had begun to grow worse. His head was a mess and it took him some time to adjust and recognize his surroundings. Once awake, his behaviour was erratic. He shifted from periods of lethargy to ones of anger and aggression. He found refuge, as always in the shooting range, the armoury or the stable. It was hard to chastise a man who held a pistol, he thought.

Aramis pushed his legs over the side of the bed – it would be a few minutes until he was stable enough to stand. He let his head hang as he thought of what Porthos had said the night before. His anger remained, but at some point it had shifted.

Not a single word Porthos had uttered was untrue. He was being a coward – he was hiding from everyone. The cloak he wore to disguise his feelings from the others was choking him and only Athos and Porthos seemed to notice or care. And when they had tried to save him from his self-destruction, he had attacked them.

Visions of Athos pressed over the riverbank flashed to his mind. The knockout punch he delivered to Porthos had left his knuckles red.

The other musketeers had accepted his fake amicability without hesitation, but the effort was killing him. What was he going to do? How was he going to get out of this?

Aramis looked at the sun that had begun to rise over the roofs of Paris. He wasn't expected at muster. Treville hadn't been by to see if he was able to perform his duties and Aramis hadn't pushed to return. Something in his heart twinged as he thought of the Captain, but he buried it further down, suppressing the pain as he had been taught.

He ran his hand through his hair once again, ghosting across the new scar at his hairline.

He felt hollow.

Empty.

And maybe this was it, he thought miserably. Maybe he'd spend the rest of his days as a shell of the man he used to be.

He uncorked the vial once more and poured himself a little more brandy and added another splash of his brown refuge before downing it gratefully and collapsing back on his bed.

oOo

When he next woke it was hours later and the sun was nearly setting. His room was a blur. His eyes bulged at the sight of the figure sitting at the foot of his bed. Its features were dark, but it sat forlornly in the chair, its elbows on its knees, its head bent over them.

"Have you come to take me to hell?" he asked, fearfully.

The figure sat up in its chair. "Are you trying to get there?" it asked.

There was something familiar in its voice, Aramis thought as he willed his vision to clear.

"No," Aramis responded finally, "but I can't go on like this." The darkness began to clear and bright blue eyes were discernible in the dimly lit room.

"Athos," said Aramis as he leaned back against the wall next to his bed. "Why are you doing this to yourself?" he asked.

"I could ask you the same," the man responded.

"I need to act that way," said Aramis. "It's what they want. It's to make it easier for the others."

"That's not what I'm referring to this time," he said as he held out his hand. In it sat the glass vial with the dangerous brow liquid in it.

Aramis stared at the vial a long time. "I need it Athos. You of all people should understand. I just need it to sleep. The others…It's the only way to not wake the whole garrison when the nightmares come," he said.

"But you still suffer. You feel and see everything, but you're powerless to call for aid," said Athos. "I'll ask you again. Why, Aramis? Why are you doing this to yourself? Why won't you just let us help you?"

"I can't...I can't bother you with this...I cannot laden you with more than I have already. There may be no coming back for me," he said miserably, his words still slurring.

"I don't believe that, and neither does Porthos," Athos said determinedly.

"Porthos," breathed Aramis. "Is he alright? I shouldn't have done that…shouldn't have said that…"

"Porthos is fine. He wanted to give you some space."

Aramis' heart lurched; of all the people he needed by his side, Porthos had now more than proven that he was one of them. Only Athos and Porthos truly saw him as he was, behind the mask.

"You need to stop this Aramis. You can't keep poisoning yourself with this. And you can't keep hiding how you're feeling," Athos said.

"Please Athos. You've got to understand. Just for a little longer, I swear. Please, Athos. I need it, " he begged.

"And I need you!" Athos said, hurt, anger and desperation spewing forth with his words. "You promised me, Aramis," he said, his voice breaking slightly in the effort to control his emotions, "You promised me that I wouldn't lose another brother," he said rising.

"You are stronger than this Aramis. You will find yourself again…I need my brothers back. You and Porthos. The choice is yours," he said as he placed the small vial back on the bedside table and left the room.

Aramis stared at the vial where it stood, the sound of his brother's boots echoed as they faded into the background.

oOo


	20. Chapter 20

Patience

Chapter 20

It had been a few days since Porthos' altercation with Aramis, and though he still continued his vigil outside the marksman's door, they danced around each other during the daytime. Athos had apprised him of his last conversation with Aramis, but if the increasingly manic gleam in the marksman's eyes and the dark circles that harboured beneath them were any indication, Aramis was still trying to placate his nightmares with the use of the drug.

The training of the cadets continued, and Porthos joined in with the others, but their reduced number was striking. When the lesson was over, Porthos sat miserably alone at their usual table. He stared at the worn wood table with such an intensity, he was certain he was adding another indentation to its surface.

His concern for Aramis was overwhelming him. True, over the past few days Aramis seemed to be trying to shirk the cloak of falsity he'd been wearing around the others, but as a consequence he'd become withdrawn. The drug was more obviously affecting him as he walked through the garrison in a morose fog that threatened to erupt into flames at any moment.

Growing up in the Court of Miracles, Porthos had seen many lives waste away to addiction and the feeling of false relief that substances like this could offer. Aramis had returned to haunting the stables and the armoury, but so far, Porthos had no idea what to do to help him. How do you save a man who may not want to be saved?

As he sat tangled in his own fears and worries, the detested voice of Antoine wafted his way. The cadet had avoided Porthos since his bout with Aramis all those weeks before, but it appeared as though his lips just couldn't keep the acidity of his tongue at bay.

Porthos was itching for a fight. The urge to take his frustrations out with his fists was a powerful one. His anger grew as Antoine drew nearer with two other cadets in tow.

Spying Porthos, he sneered, not bothering to keep his voice down, "Do you know what the real tragedy of this whole mess in Savoy was? So many men were lost, but not the one we would have benefited from by being rid of."

Porthos' ears rang as these words washed over him. He immediately pushed violently away from the table and a roar tore the air.

Porthos was stunned because the angry growl hadn't actually come from him.

Aramis had thrown himself at Antoine and had the man pinned beneath him while he pummelled him with a ferocious rage. The garrison stood stunned – the other cadets had stepped back, frightened, as the onslaught began.

Porthos leapt forward and tried to bodily remove Aramis from Antoine. Aramis continued to fight like a rabid dog.

"How dare you…how dare you!" he snarled and swore in Spanish as he fought Porthos' restraints. "Let me go Porthos! Let me go!" he roared as he tried to get back at the cadet who lay bleeding on the courtyard ground.

"Aramis!" shouted Porthos as Aramis accidentally struck him as he struggled to resume his fight. Porthos could taste the blood in his mouth.

"ARAMIS!" roared a voice. Captain Treville had come running down the stairs from his office at the sound of the commotion. "That's enough! My office! NOW!"

Aramis stilled in Porthos' arms. He was breathing heavily and glaring at the Captain, his face wild with danger and anger.

"Release him, Porthos. You two! Take this man to the infirmary," the Captain said to Antoine's cronies. Porthos released Aramis but the marksman didn't move.

"I will not ask you again," the Captain threatened stepping in front of Aramis. Porthos was caught staring between the two pairs of eyes – the bright blue and dark brown – each brimming with pain and anger and a matching intensity.

Instinctively, Porthos stepped in front of Aramis. "It wasn't his fault Captain – " he began.

"Not now Porthos!" the Captain snapped and stormed back up to his office. Aramis swallowed and straightened his shoulders and with the fire still burning within him, he marched up the stairs in the Captain's wake, his fists clenched, his hands bloody, his knuckles raw and his eyes mutinous.

oOo

Aramis stormed into Treville's office and slammed the door behind him with enough force to have it rattle on its hinges.

He stood across from Treville, the messy desk in between them, and glared at him. Treville stared back at the angry haunted man and fought the urge to weep. But he was a Captain and he would hold himself together.

"Explain yourself soldier," he said, the low rumble of his voice expressing his displeasure. Aramis said nothing but continued to glare at the Captain.

"Give me a reason for your actions that I can relate to the King when he hears about you attacking the son of a member of the nobility!" snarled Treville, losing his patience and throwing his gloves onto the desk.

"You want a reason? How about twenty dead men in the snow of Savoy?" Aramis said menacingly. "How about accepting a cadet into this regiment who isn't even worthy of the gutter let alone a chance to vie for a pauldron? A man who is ignorant and selfish and discriminates against his brothers – who would use the deaths of twenty men in a jest to injure Porthos!" He was shouting now, but Aramis didn't care.

Treville had paled. "Aramis," he began, but the marksman was incensed.

"Don't pretend like you care. Not now. Not after everything," Aramis hissed.

Treville's gaze turned to stone. "How can you say that. Those were my men. What's come over you?"

"You left me!" Aramis shouted. "You deserted me the same way he left me. You couldn't even look at me at the inn. I've been back for weeks now and you haven't so much as asked if I'm okay. Tell me Captain, do I look okay?" Aramis was shaking.

"How long have you been using the drugs?" Treville asked, his tone firm and measured.

Aramis scoffed a laugh. "Since I've been haunted by the ghosts of my brothers."

Treville raised his hand to massage the bridge of his nose. If only he could tell Aramis how much he knew and how much he cared. Every paternal instinct he had had wanted him to stay by his side at the inn and coax Aramis back to health, but his guilt as his Captain, the guilt he bore after learning the truth of the Cardinal's plot in Savoy, had made him unworthy of such a privilege.

He had been getting updates daily from Athos on how Aramis was progressing. Athos hadn't mentioned the drug use, but Treville had been around long enough to recognize the signs of its abuse.

"What do you want?" he asked Aramis miserably.

"Answers," the man replied angrily. "We were there under your orders, Captain. We were unprotected. I want to know who attacked us and why."

Treville sighed and walked to his cabinet. He withdrew his bottle of brandy and two glasses, filling them both. He took a seat in his chair and waited for Aramis to calm himself enough to do the same.

"The men who attacked you were a troupe of Spanish soldiers. They had been looking to win favour with the Duke of Savoy and came across your location on their return journey. Bitter and angry, they took their frustrations out on you hoping to wound Louis' pride," Treville said as he downed the contents of his glass and poured himself another, forcing himself to swallow his lies.

"I had no knowledge that those men would be in the area. Those were my men, my soldiers. I never would have sent you there if I had any indication that you would be in danger. You and I have fought with and for each other for a long time. You must know me well enough by now to know that I would never play with the lives of my men," he said sternly and earnestly now as he glared into the eyes of the marksman, his jaw set.

Aramis stared back at the Captain. His glass remained untouched on the desk, but Treville saw something click in the man's eyes.

It was the faith that this soldier had in his Captain. It was the words that he'd been desperate to hear. It had been so simple. This realization, this trust, stole Treville's breath away as he felt his heart breaking for the son he had unknowingly betrayed.

"How did you know?" Aramis whispered as he processed this information and fought to control his own emotions. "How did you get to me in time?"

Treville sighed. "I care about you Aramis, the way I care about all my men, though with you it's different. I had a feeling that something was wrong, and when I voiced this to Athos and Porthos they agreed to come with me immediately. Even the hint that anything may have happened to you and those men were willing to risk their own lives to try to save yours."

Aramis swallowed thickly and reached for his glass to clear his throat.

"The drugs Aramis. Why?" the Captain said softly.

Aramis downed the contents of his glass and dropped his head. "It was the only way," he whispered. "It was the only way I could stop the screams…my screams. I didn't want to let the others know," he said desperately downing the second glass the Captain had filled for him.

"You can't keep taking them," Treville said sternly.

"Captain, I –"

"No," said Treville. "I know you Aramis. I know the man you are. I've known you since you were little more than a boy. You are stronger than this, son. The only way you will ever work past this is if you conquer your fears. Athos and Porthos will help you."

Aramis stared at the desk. "I don't know if they will…I've said and done some awful things…"

"And you almost beat a man to death in defence of one of them," Treville said with a small smirk.

"Athos – "Aramis began again.

"Athos understands better than most. But more than that, these men care deeply about you Aramis, in a way that I know you reciprocate. How else have you been able to form such a formidable bond in such a short time? The three of you are like brothers, and neither heaven nor hell will part these men from your side. Don't leave them now," said the Captain, his eyes burning with a totally different fire now.

Aramis paused. Was it possible the Captain knew that in his darkest hours he had thought about leaving?

"You need to stop with the drugs Aramis. You need to feel, and you need to hurt and you need to fight – that's the only way you're going to heal and return to being the man I know you are; the man Athos and Porthos know you are; the man that the King, the country and this whole damn regiment rely on you to be. You are stronger than this, son. I know you are."

Aramis stared into the bright blue eyes, and finally, slowly, he nodded.

oOo

* * *

_**A/N: And just like that, it was so simple. Answers and kindness. Treville couldn't stay out of it forever! I hope this helped alleviate your concerns for the Captain and Aramis...will this be enough to save him though?**_

_**As always, thanks for your great reviews! It's so hard fighting the urge to spoil the story by responding to all of your reviews, but I REALLY want to!**_

_**Thanks for reading! Thanks for writing! You guys are amazing.**_


	21. Chapter 21

_**A/N: **__**Thank you for continuing to follow along with me. Your reviews mean everything. **_

_**Treville is redeemed! But Aramis is not out of the woods yet!**_

* * *

Patience

Chapter 21

Aramis left Treville's office and staggered back to his barracks. He wasn't sure if it was the brandy or the aftereffects of the drugs or the sheer output of emotional exhaustion that was causing him to sway, but regardless, he knew it would still be a long night.

He opened the door to his room to find Athos and Porthos awaiting him inside. Porthos was seated at the table, his head in his hands. Athos was pacing a new path across the worn carpet in the room. Both men looked up as he entered.

"You're going to owe me a new carpet," Aramis said as Athos' eyes bulged in response.

"Aramis –"

"What did the captain say?"

Aramis held up his hand and took a seat on the bed. He sighed heavily.

Two jaws snapped shut as their eyes stared at Aramis where he sat.

"I need to apologize to you. Both of you," he said earnestly as he lowered his hands to his lap. "Since that night in Savoy…since that day that you found me in the snow and willed me back to health…since that day I have treated you terribly. I am ashamed," he said.

Both Athos and Porthos tried to interrupt, but Aramis raised his hand to stop them. "No, please," he said, "I need to say this."

The two men again fell silent as their eyes softened in concern. Aramis felt a burning in his chest as he looked at the gleaming brown and blue eyes and swallowed thickly.

"I have been terrible to you. I have been cruel and bitter and have lashed out at you at every opportunity in one way or another. First I had tried to drive you away, certain that you would abandon me too…like Marsac did." Porthos frowned and Athos clenched his fist at this. "When I realized that despite my best efforts you would stay by me, I thought then of leaving you – of escaping, if not physically, then mentally. I wanted to spare you from this curse that was haunting me," he said bitterly.

"I've been struggling with everything…trying to figure out how I was supposed to act, how I was supposed to be the man I was…it was only in all those days with you at the inn, or when I was with Bella in the stable...when I could stop thinking about it and just let myself be, that I felt...calm," he said.

"When we got back here, when the memories of all those brave men seemed to pummel me all at once, I thought my heart would stop. I couldn't face it. I was terrified of the others. I was afraid of their anger, but mostly, I was afraid of their pity. I couldn't let them know the details of this tragedy. I couldn't allow them to hear my screams so I put on a mask. I smiled and joked and I forced myself to be who I thought they wanted me to be," he said. "You were right. You both were, that night by the Seine. I was hiding and I was lying and I was a coward. It was killing me. The effort alone…"

Aramis sighed deeply again and cast his eye towards his bedside table. "The drug…it was helpful at first. It allowed me to sleep without waking the others when my nightmares took over. I couldn't rest, but at least I wouldn't wake the others with my screams. Somehow, in the back of my mind, I knew that you would still both be there if even the drugs couldn't help me. It gave me so much comfort, but I couldn't tell you...Through everything, despite everything, you were both there…And I hope you still will be," he said as he raised his head to meet their eyes.

Neither man said anything, but simply waited for Aramis to continue. With a deep breath, he resumed.

"I need your help," he said, his eyes beginning to brim. "I want to get better. I want to get past this. It's going to hurt, it'll be awful, but I need to. Please, will you help me?" he pleaded desperately. "I need you. I need my brothers."

A silence fell.

And then:

"Always," Athos said, his icy blue eyes bright with tears that he was fighting to hold back as he looked into the eyes of the marksman, who, for the first time in weeks, finally resembled his brother once more.

"We'll never leave you," said Porthos, who was openly weeping, physically expressing the love and relief that he couldn't contain in his heart alone.

He stood suddenly and moved towards the bed and engulfed Aramis in his arms. The marksman broke down in the warm embrace, his own tears falling freely from his eyes. A moment later, a second impact indicated that Athos too had joined in the embrace, and for the first time in their lives, all three men felt whole.

The embrace lingered for a few moments before they withdrew.

"This will not be easy," Aramis said miserably, his dark tear-filled gaze still marked by the dark circles under his eyes.

"We know. We aren't goin' anywhere," said Porthos seriously.

Athos nodded his assent. "Let me clean your hands," he said and gathering a bowl full of warm water and a clean towel and some bandages from Aramis' cabinet, he delicately cleansed his brother's torn and bruised knuckles as Aramis leant heavily against his other brother for support.

oOo

That first night was terrible.

Porthos and Athos sat up with Aramis late into the night as he began his fight against the pull of that liquid devil. As they watched him, it seemed as though Aramis aged before their eyes as his need for the drug's relief made its first overtures.

Eventually he fell asleep, his body tossing and turning as his plagued mind went rampant without the dangerous restraints of the drugs. His cries began around three. Athos sat next to Aramis' bed and tenderly ran his hands through the man's hair as he whimpered.

As Aramis' body flinched more and more violently, Porthos was roused as well. Taking a seat across from Athos, they sat with the marksman as his mind ravaged his body with that hated word, "Marsac", once again bringing an end to the nightmares just before dawn. Porthos breathed a sigh of relief as Aramis stilled, and prayed that the man receive at least a few hours of peace.

When Aramis rose, his pallour was grey. His eyes were wide and agitated. The withdrawal had just begun and would grow much worse before it got better, Athos knew.

The dark circles under Aramis' eyes seemed to grow darker – a testament to this first anguished night, but he smiled softly at his brothers. Internally, Athos pleaded with any cosmic being that might be listening for Aramis to be spared at least one of the pains he would be suffering – either the plaguing of his mind from the nightmares or the torture of his body from the withdrawal.

Porthos carried a tray of breakfast into the room. The sight and smell of the porridge made Aramis' stomach clench and he pushed the bowl away from him.

"You need to eat something," Athos said.

Aramis bit his lip. "I know," he said weakly, "I just…can't. I fear my stomach won't be able to handle it."

"Try this," Athos said, removing the porridge and handing him a piece of bread. "The toxins will be fighting to clear out of your body. It will be painful and exhausting. You'll need some sustenance to combat it."

"Plus, you're too skinny already," Porthos said, baiting his brother.

A flicker of the fire of Aramis returned to his eyes at Porthos' quip. "I'm sure I can find a few lovely beings that would disagree with you."

Porthos beamed at this reply and even Athos had to look away to hide his grin at the familiar banter.

Sighing, Aramis picked up the bread and began to eat. He managed a few mouthfuls before stopping.

"How are you feeling?" Athos asked sombrely.

Aramis frowned and considered his response. "Tight…like an overwound bow string. And weak. It's as though my body doesn't know itself."

Athos nodded. "Rest. We will be right here."

Aramis' complexion hadn't improved since he had awoken and a sheen of sweat was visible on his forehead. Athos could tell by the slight tremble in the man that Aramis was hiding the true extent of his discomfort. He didn't protest the instruction to rest, and shakily he rose from the table and returned to his bed.

"You won't leave?" he asked weakly as he pulled the sheets back over him, the creases around his eyes evidencing the pain he was in.

"Never," said Porthos. Aramis sighed deeply and with a small smile he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

The next two nights grew progressively worse. When he wasn't tormented by the images in his dreams, Aramis' waking body was rebelling violently. His stomach expelled any contents that were forced into it and when it was empty, Aramis was ravaged by violent dry-heaves. Athos and Porthos did what they could. They held him against them in his feverish nightmares, his hand desperately clasping theirs as they continuously affirmed that he was safe. They held him down and bolstered him up and wiped the moisture from his brow.

Captain Treville had come by to check on his marksman, but he didn't stay. He couldn't stay. He had realized after their conversation in his office that their relationship had changed. The trauma of Savoy, the distance he had insisted upon putting between them and his own lingering guilt had altered it. He would no longer be the pillar that Aramis turned to for support. No, that would be Athos and Porthos now. Treville's eyes watered at this thought. He was filled with relief and pride and his own remorse over this sacrifice. But he was a captain, and he couldn't let his true feelings show.

For four days and five nights Aramis struggled. He fought food and drink and pain and sleep. The few brief hours he was awake and was not violently ill, he trembled severely as he hallucinated. When he was too delirious to eat, Athos had to force the clear broth into the man as his body continued to expel its nourishment along with the toxins that were fighting for the sovereignty of his body. When he slept the nightmares continued, though if Porthos and Athos dared to hope, they seemed to be less frequent, less severe, and less long. Whether that was because of Aramis' sheer exhaustion or his mental and physical health improving, it was hard to say, but they were both secretly hopeful.

The fifth day was the worst. It was as though the drugs were making one last desperate battle for Aramis' life, and perhaps his soul based on his pleas – but Athos and Porthos would not let the drugs win. He trembled and sobbed all day as Porthos held him against his chest, whispering words of comfort as Athos tried to cool his fevered brow with compresses.

It was just after dusk when he finally went still. Porthos gently lay the man on his bed, but for the first time in weeks, Aramis actually looked peaceful. His dark curls were splayed upon the pillow; the creases near his eyes were far lessened and the slight pink tone on his cheeks all looked like signs from God that their brother had turned a corner – that he might recover and come back to them after all.

Aramis rose the next morning with Athos gently bathing his brow.

"We really should stop meeting like this," he whispered hoarsely causing Athos' lip to quirk.

"You mean with one of us indisposed?" he replied. "I'll leave that with you as you're the one who believes in miracles," Athos said causing Aramis to grin in response. Their soft words woke Porthos who had been asleep in the chair by the bed. He beamed at the easy banter that had returned to the brothers and the playful gleam in Aramis' eye.

"How are you feeling?" Porthos asked gently, leaning forward and bashfully taking Aramis' hand. The marksman gave his hand a weak squeeze, but the emotional look in his eyes was strong.

"Hungry," he said, which caused the big man to chuckle.

"I'll go tell Serge. He'll be thrilled," said Porthos as he made to rise.

"Porthos," Aramis called causing the tall man to hesitate, "Anything but porridge, please."

Porthos grinned and left the room.

Athos was staring at the calmly resting marksman. Aramis raised his eyebrow quizzically at the man, who frowned as he contemplated how to phrase his question.

"Athos," said Aramis, spurring his brother to speak.

"Do you…What do you remember from last night?" he asked cautiously.

Aramis frowned and thought hard. "Nothing," he said as his own brow creased.

"You didn't seem to have any nightmares," Athos explained. "They seemed to be lessening as your body fought the drugs. Maybe your mind was fighting demons of its own simultaneously."

"I'm not sure," said Aramis, "But I'm hopeful. I do not believe that these nightmares will ever truly leave me, but if they can be deterred or managed…" he said hopefully.

Athos nodded. "Let's see how you fair today, but I too am hopeful," he said.

Aramis grinned. "I thought you said you didn't believe in miracles?"

"Perhaps you could convince me," he said with a grin back as Porthos bustled through the door with a heaping tray of food.

oOo


	22. Chapter 22

_**A/N: Thanks everyone for your great reviews like always. I really REALLY appreciate every one. Writing fiction for other people to read is the scariest and most vulnerable thing I've ever done, so your support and continuous encouragement means the absolute world. There's just a few chapters left...Some of you may want a tissue for this one...**_

_**I took the liberty of paying a small tribute to the awe-inspiring Notre Dame. If you were lucky enough to visit there like I was, it truly was more glorious than anything I could capture with words. If a picture is worth a thousand words, then what are the tones of those bells worth? I hope to be able to visit again once "Our Lady of Paris" is restored to her true majesty.**_

* * *

Patience

Chapter 22

After breakfast, Aramis insisted on going outside.

He was weak, but eager to step out into the courtyard after days of confinement in his room. The others hadn't been told about the explicit details of his confinement – only that Aramis was battling the strain of his return, which the others accepted without hesitation.

As he slowly walked to their usual table taking his seat looking out at the practice ring, the few musketeers and cadets that passed all greeted him warmly. They had heard his screams and could guess at the images that haunted him, but instead of pity, there was pride in their gazes as he walked from the barracks to finally re-join them. Sure, he was weak and a little hesitant for a man who usually moved from place to place with what can only be described as a swagger, but he had fought and was still fighting and every soldier in the regiment had sent up a prayer for Aramis to be returned to them.

Aramis closed his eyes and felt the warm sunshine on his face. A soft breeze traced its way across his brow and through his dark curls. He breathed deeply and absorbed the sounds and smells of the garrison around him: fresh straw and a whinny from the stables, the twang of steel as two cadets sparred, and the smell of damp earth, leather and gunpowder. The smells of his home.

He opened his eyes and looked up at Treville leaning over his balcony. They locked eyes for a moment and Aramis nodded. Treville nodded back, then turned and went back into his office as Aramis looked away. Things would be different between them, but the mutual respect and affection would remain.

Aramis took his meals with the others that day. Athos and Porthos stayed by his side; they were unsure how Aramis would react to the attention of so many. Whether it was from a concerted effort or simply because he was too tired to pretend anymore, Aramis was well in the company of the others. He was quiet and a bit subdued, but warm and welcoming to the men who greeted him warmly in return.

In truth, Aramis even laughed a few times as he jested with Porthos, Athos and some of the others – not the loud musical laugh that used to ring out across the garrison courtyard, but in time that would come again, along with the roguish grins and mischievous winks.

Aramis retired early, Athos and Porthos resolutely at his side. He eased his aching body back into his bed as the others began a quiet game of cards at his table as he slipped into a restful sleep.

He woke just as dawn was beginning to peel back the curtains of night over Paris.

Porthos and Athos had both fallen asleep at their chairs in Aramis' room. He gazed on their slumbering forms and had to fight the urge to leap for joy. If they were both sleeping, that meant that he had made it through the night without waking them with a nightmare. Quietly he dressed and slipped out the door, allowing his brothers to continue with their own much needed respite.

oOo

Panic set in when Athos and Porthos finally awoke a few hours later to find their brother missing.

The pair leapt to their feet and dashed from the room, reuniting in the courtyard when they had assessed that the refectory and stables were both missing a handsome marksman.

As the unparalleled bells of Notre Dame exalted the still fairly early hour of the new day from their illustrious towers, Athos took the lead. He and Porthos swept down the streets of Paris to the small church that Aramis tended to visit when his soul was burdened.

It was there that they found him. He knelt before the altar, his rosary beads clenched in his hand as he finished his prayers. As he rose to face his awaiting brothers, he beamed at them despite the tears that still rolled gently down his face.

He took a deep breath of relief, then chuckled softly as he wiped the tears from his eyes.

Porthos and Athos gasped when in the moment that Aramis exited the church, he was bathed suddenly in the early morning light which was only matched by the light, life, laughter and love that had finally returned to the marksman's dark gaze. His wide smile seemed more handsome than ever before. Life seemed to radiate from the man once more.

Perhaps miracles were possible after all, Athos thought as his brother was finally returned to them.

"You had us worried," Athos said.

"I'm sorry, mes amis, there were a few things I needed to give thanks for," he said with a grin.

"Next time, could ya leave a note?" asked Porthos as Aramis clapped him on the shoulder and began the walk back to the garrison.

"There's something I need to do still," said Aramis sombrely as they passed through the garrison gates. Athos and Porthos nodded knowingly.

"After you eat something," Athos ordered. "You've only just recovered and despite your best efforts at trying to hide it, I can tell you're struggling to stay upright at the moment."

"Yes mother," said Aramis with a roll of his eyes and a grin. Athos raised his eyebrow and Porthos laughed as they headed across the courtyard in the direction of the kitchens.

oOo

When Aramis had eaten enough to satisfy Porthos' expectations, the three men stepped away from their table. They mounted their horses and rode the short distance to the Musketeers' graveyard. The soldiers dismounted and looked out at the neat rows of crosses that marked the resting places of their brothers-in-arms who had fallen while in service to the King.

"Are you okay?" Porthos asked as he looked at his brother who stood with his hand on the gate. Aramis' dark eyes were clouded. He continued to hesitate, unsure of whether or not he'd be able to cross that precipice to where he would face the brothers he lost.

"I'm not sure…"Aramis said softly.

"Perhaps you'd feel better if you were dressed appropriately," Athos said with an eyebrow raised. Aramis gave him a confused look as Athos handed him a small bundle. Carefully Aramis unwrapped the bundle. His eyes widened and tears began to well as he beheld his artfully tooled pauldron. His hands trembled slightly as his fingers felt the ornate flourishes and flowers that emblazoned the piece. They lingered over each nick as his many years of service and adventure flashed before his eyes.

"I didn't know if I'd be able to put this on again…" Aramis said haltingly as his fingers fidgeted with the buckles. Porthos took the pauldron from his hands and without another word he fastened it to the marksman's shoulder. He stepped back and smiled proudly at the man, Athos at his side. Aramis raised his hand and delicately stroked the pauldron now securely fastened in its rightful place back on his shoulder; his eyes burned with affection as he stared down at it.

"You're ready now," Porthos said. "You weren't you without it."

"I'm not sure I deserve this," Aramis said sadly.

"No man deserves it more than you, Aramis," Athos said. "I know you will spend the rest of your life fighting to be worthy of that pauldron as you have done each day since Treville first placed it on your shoulder."

Aramis straightened his shoulders. He nodded firmly at Athos and Porthos and slowly turned to enter the cemetery to bid farewell to the brothers he lost in Savoy.

oOo

Aramis stood at the head of the rows of crosses. He held his hat over his heart, the spring wind fluttering his dark hair.

"You'd think being a soldier for as long as I have that this would somehow get easier," he said as he dropped his head with a grim chuckle. He stared at the ground for a minute before raising his head. He had tears in his eyes but he bravely fought to keep them at bay. The sun shone down on him as he stood.

"Brothers, this training mission to Savoy…this massacre that stole you from the rest of us. This mission that cut short your lives…I swear to you…your memories will not be forgotten. Not by me, not by any member of the garrison. I don't know why I was spared…perhaps it was only so I could return to tell the others of your heroic sacrifice," he said and paused. The tears broke free past his lashes. Athos and Porthos stepped forward and flanked him on either side. Aramis breathed deeply taking comfort in their proximity and their support. "I swear to you brothers, I will spend every breath that's left to me living to be worthy of this pauldron and worthy of your memory. All for one, brothers."

"And one for all," Athos and Porthos echoed.

oOo


	23. Chapter 23

_**A/N: Happy Easter/Passover weekend! Thank you so much for your reviews on my last chapter. There are two more after this one! Should have this all tucked away next week. I thought I should end this story on a bang - maybe literally! Hope you all can hang in for a few more chapters!**_

* * *

Patience

Chapter 23

A few weeks passed and things in the garrison slowly returned to normal.

Aramis was back to duty. His eyes once more sparkled with that mixture of daring and humour; his bravado and natural buoyancy had returned. Once more light seemed to shine from the medic as he laughed loudly and told tall tales with his brothers-in-arms. He took his role as a medic and mentor more seriously, offering a compassionate and caring hand for anyone who needed it.

In his absence, Treville had come to rely heavily on Athos to organize and lead the rest of the garrison. Aramis did not begrudge his brother this role. He would not be the one to lead the others into danger. He would be the one to help heal their wounds, and offer a kind word, a quiet ear or a winning jest – whatever was needed. He would fight by their side and support his brother in any way possible.

Athos, for his part, had slipped naturally into this position of leadership. His noble upbringing had afforded him knowledge of courtly life and propriety that Treville found invaluable – even if it taxed Athos' patience relentlessly. With each assignment he received, Athos turned first to Aramis for his counsel, and came to rely more and more on Porthos as well as he continued in his training as a cadet.

The three men had become, as Treville had hoped, inseparable. He routinely began pairing the three of them for some of his most important and dangerous assignments.

Treville had expelled Antoine and his cohorts following the altercation with Aramis. The cadets protested and vowed to have their families appeal Treville's decision to the King, but Louis had accepted Treville's decision without question. The Cardinal had taken advantage of the men's anger and had recruited them into his Red Guards, where so far, they had steered clear of any trouble with the Musketeers.

The men were gathering for muster as Treville stood grimly before them. A recent request from the King had troubled him, and he massaged the bridge of his nose as his men took their places. Athos stood at attention at the head of the men. The absence of Aramis at his right caused Treville to pause. He noticed Porthos glance at Athos quickly, a hint of worry in the gaze.

"Gentlemen," Treville began, but was interrupted by the marksman's hurried arrival. He ran to assume his spot. "Now that Aramis has honoured us with his presence, he must have a good excuse for his tardiness," Treville scolded, narrowing his eyes at the marksman.

"Believe me Captain, she was," he said with a sheepish grin. A murmur of laughter echoed from the men around him. Porthos bit his cheek and Athos clenched his jaw, fighting the urge not to shake his head in exasperation at his brother.

"Excellent. Then the pile of weapons that need servicing in the armoury will also benefit from your attention when you're off duty," Treville said. Aramis blushed, but nodded, accepting his punishment. He straightened his shoulders as Treville carried on with assigning duties for the day.

"One last thing," Treville said as his hand once more returned to the bridge of his nose. "The King would like a demonstration of the prowess of his regiment. He has arranged for us to prove our skills superior to those of the Red Guard. There will be three competitions: Shooting, Swords and Hand-to-hand. I will be assessing your skills this week to determine who our champions will be at the competition to take place at the week's end. Dismissed," he said as he turned on his heel and retreated to his paperwork.

Aramis and Athos smiled at Porthos as they walked away to report to palace duty. Porthos grinned back and reported to the shooting range with the other cadets. Since Savoy, Treville had been making a concerted effort to recruit men that he thought would best represent King Louis as musketeers, relying more heavily on his own opinions than the pressures of the King and court to accept members of the nobility.

Things in training had vastly improved for Porthos. Under the tutelage of Athos, his swordsmanship had come leaps and bounds, and Aramis' assistance at the target range had bolstered his confidence considerably. Porthos had offered his own guidance to any man who requested it in the wrestling ring, and so far no man had been able to best him.

He was as eager as the other cadets to see who the Captain would select to represent them. He had no doubt that Athos would be chosen as their representative at swords. Aramis' superiority with pistols and muskets was still unrivalled, but Porthos wondered if Treville would be comfortable placing the Spaniard as the focus of so much attention. In terms of hand-to-hand combat, it was difficult to know which musketeer would be chosen; their sparring master, Hugo, had been lost at Savoy.

Porthos laughed and talked animatedly with the other cadets as they took aim at their targets. The competition was bound to be exciting – and they all wanted to defeat the Cardinal's Red Guard.

The week progressed and the date of the competition drew nearer. Athos, Porthos and Aramis sat at their regular table having just returned from delivering a missive for the King when Treville appeared at his balcony.

"You two. My office,' he said in his customary aggravated tone.

Athos raised his eyebrow at Aramis. "Did you do something?"

Aramis grinned. "Not yet," he replied as he winked at Porthos and followed Athos up the stairs.

Porthos chuckled to himself as he helped himself to the apple Aramis left abandoned on the table. He couldn't express how overjoyed he was to have the marksman truly back with them. There was a near constant throbbing in his chest as he sat with those two musketeers - as though a void he had been carrying with him all his life was suddenly filled. With Aramis happy next to them, it was even difficult for the typically quiet and dour Athos to fight a smirk for long.

Athos and Aramis stepped into the Captain's office and stood at attention in front of his desk which was once again covered in paperwork.

"At ease," Treville said and gestured to the chairs across from him. With a quick exchange of glances, Aramis and Athos took their seats.

Treville smirked for just a moment as he considered what could have possibly been exchanged in that swift glance. He couldn't help but look at these two fully-grown men as children preparing to be scolded for something. The thought both amused him and worried him. With Aramis back, it was inevitable that trouble would find them, and he had already been on the receiving end of some questionable mission reports from the pair and Porthos.

"Captain," said Athos, pulling Treville back to the present. Treville grimaced slightly and went to his cabinet, fetching the trusty bottle of brandy that resided there. Its contents were quite lower than Treville remembered and he made a note to himself to resupply his cache.

He poured three glasses and took a seat across from his men.

"So," said Treville as he took a small sip from his glass, "this competition," he said and let the word linger there for a moment.

Athos and Aramis shared another quick glance, with Athos offering a barely perceptible shake of his head. Again Treville smirked at the hours of conversation that seemed to pass between these men without a word uttered.

Treville took another sip of the brandy before continuing.

"There's no question Athos that you will be representing this regiment before the King and Cardinal," he said.

"I'd be honoured, sir," came Athos' curt reply.

"Aramis," said Treville, his eyes focussing on his marksman across from him. "I equally have no question about your capacity with a rifle as being second to none," said Treville, the pride in his eyes beaming out at the man, who offered a small smile in return – a departure from his usual cocky grin. Treville continued. "If you are agreeable, I would wish to submit you as our champion as well." Silence followed this statement for a moment.

"You are the best marksman I have ever seen Aramis, but I don't need to tell you that," said the Captain, pulling a bigger grin from the man. "In battle, on missions, I have no doubt of your abilities. I wonder, however, if you'd welcome the attention that you might receive by agreeing to compete," he said and he saw Aramis wilt slightly. Athos' eyes shifted to Aramis, who had lowered his eyes to the floor as he considered Treville's statement.

"Thank you for your concern and your praise, Captain," he said finally. "I would be honoured to represent this regiment. I will not disappoint you," he said staring directly into the fiery blue eyes of his Captain.

"I have no doubt," said the Captain, "You never have." He stared back at his marksman, confirming the mutual assurance of faith between the Captain and his musketeer remained in spite of all that had passed.

Treville raised his glass then, and making eye contact with both Athos and Aramis, they all drank.

"Now that that's settled," the Captain continued, leaning back in his chair, "I am wondering about your evaluations of the men. Who among them would best represent us in the hand-to-hand round?"

Another glance was exchanged as Captain Treville awaited their answer.

"Without question," said Athos, "Porthos is the man best suited to represent us."

Treville raised an eyebrow at this response. "Porthos is not yet a musketeer," he said.

"But he should be," Aramis declared. "Porthos represents the best of all of us."

Athos nodded his agreement. "His skills with a sword and pistol have improved drastically. He has worked tirelessly on these skills to better serve the regiment and he has never yet been defeated at hand-to-hand."

"Not only that, Porthos represents the brotherhood that lies in the heart of this regiment. It's what we were founded on, Captain," said Aramis. "No one has worked harder than Porthos to be worthy of their pauldron. He deserves to be our champion."

Treville looked from the burning brown eyes to the blazing blue ones of the men across from him. He offered them a grim smile. "Thank you for your counsel," he said, dismissing the men from his office.

They shared one more quick glance at this dismissal and downing the contents of their glasses, they exited the office leaving Treville to his musings.

oOo


	24. Chapter 24

Patience

Chapter 24

The morning of the competition dawned and the garrison was charged with energy.

The King and a selection of his courtiers were gathered at a pavilion on the palace grounds. The Queen and Cardinal joined the King upon a covered bandstand to shelter them from the bright sunshine. Captain Treville stood with his men.

The sword competition was first. Athos stood on the field with his sword and parrying dagger in hand. His opponent stood across from him. Both men bowed to the King and Queen before assuming their ready stances. As the sport of gentlemen, both men bowed to each other before they engaged their swords.

It was clear from the outset that Athos was the superior swordsman. The Red Guard he faced was eager but delivered his strokes with superfluous flourishes. The competition was until first blood; Athos played with his opponent whose exaggerated thrusts left him off balance on numerous occasions. It was clear that Athos was enjoying himself almost as much as the King. Finally Athos took pity on the man and with an exquisite sequences of strokes, his opponent lay defeated at his feet, blood blossoming from the shallow hit that Athos delivered to his shoulder. The Musketeers clapped their approval as the first victory was awarded to their regiment.

The field cleared as Aramis and his opponent took their positions for the shooting portion of the competition. They raised their pistols. Both Aramis and his opponent hit the bull's-eye of the first target easily. The targets were pulled further back.

Again, both men hit their targets. Once more the targets were pushed back and again both men found their marks. Aramis grinned as the targets were pulled back even further. The Red Guard's brow furrowed as he assessed the new distance. The Red Guard fired first, his shot hitting the target, but well outside of the bull's-eye. Aramis slowly loaded his pistol, revelling in the competition. Porthos and Athos watched their brother savouring every moment as he reloaded his weapon, drawing it out to antagonize the Red Guard.

"Aramis…" Treville muttered exasperatedly so only Porthos and Athos could hear.

Aramis gave his Captain a wink and with a cocky grin at the frustrated Red Guard who stood next to him, he fired his pistol without even looking at the target.

The King leapt to his feet with applause as the centre of the target burst forth in a spray of hay as Aramis' bullet found its very middle.

"Excellent! Excellent! Well done!" cried the King excitedly. Aramis smiled broadly as he bowed to the King and took his place among the other musketeers as his opponent sulked with his regiment.

"Well now Cardinal, are you ready to concede your defeat? It looks as though my Musketeers are outdoing your Red Guards at every challenge."

"I believe the true measure of a warrior comes from the strength and skill of the man himself," said the Cardinal tersely, "and How he is able to fair without the aid of weaponry."

"Interesting," said Louis, "I might agree with you Cardinal, however I would not dismiss the skill and value of a talented marksman and swordsman as quickly as you do."

"My champion will prove his value to you sire," the Cardinal said as he spread his red cloaked arm out and summoned his champion to the field.

Antoine stepped forward, full of confidence as he sneered smugly at the members of his former regiment.

"Very well Cardinal. Treville! Bring forward your champion," said Louis as his eyes widened at the size and seeming ferocity of this new member of the Red Guard.

"Yes sire," Treville said. "The Musketeers have chosen Porthos du Vallon as their champion," he declared.

Porthos was stunned as he was pushed forward into the ring.

"This man is not a Musketeer!" the Cardinal protested.

"True," said Treville. "Porthos is a recruit into your Majesty's regiment. He served for many years as part of your infantry. Not only is Porthos one of the best fighters in hand-to-hand combat that I have ever seen, but he is the best representation of your regiment. He has more than exemplified the values of courage, honour and brotherhood that your Regiment is based on, sire."

The Cardinal made to protest some more, but Louis raised a bejewelled hand to silence him.

"Your man can't possibly be afraid of a cadet, Cardinal," Louis said dismissively. "You there. Porthos," he said calling to the still stunned tall man. Porthos had blushed at the Captain's words and blushed further at being addressed directly by his King. He bowed deeply before Louis before rising awkwardly.

"Is it true that you served in my infantry?" Louis asked.

"Yes sire, for three years. Until Captain Treville recruited me," Porthos said uncertainly.

"It's obvious you're not of a noble lineage," the King said, which had Athos and Aramis tensing where they stood, fighting the urge to jump in and defend their brother. "Tell me Porthos, where are you from?"

"Here, sire. I was born in Paris. Proudly," he said looking into the eyes of his monarch.

"Quite right," Louis said, grinning broadly at the man before him. "France is changing Cardinal. I see no reason why Porthos cannot compete. He will be competing not only for the honour of the Musketeer Regiment, but for his place within it."

The Cardinal gasped at this pronouncement, which had the King grinning more broadly.

"Do you hear me Porthos? Treville has vouched for you which is a fine enough recommendation for me. Prove to me the he is not wrong. Fight now to defend your brothers, the honour of the regiment, and for your commission."

Porthos' ears rang. "It would be my honour, sire," he said and bowed again.

oOo


	25. Chapter 25

Patience

Chapter 25

The bright sun streamed down on the pitch as Porthos took his position next to Antoine. The new Red Guard glared at him.

"It's about time someone put you in your place," Antoine muttered as they stood before the King.

"Gentlemen," said Treville, "You will be fighting until one of you is either knocked unconscious, or forced to submit. Take your places."

The two men turned to face each other. As was customary between gentlemen in a competition of this nature, Porthos gave a short bow to his opponent. Antoine did not, but savagely delivered the first blow of the bout to an unsuspecting Porthos.

The Musketeers roared in anger as Porthos fell back a few paces with his hand on his jaw. Antoine leered at Porthos, smug satisfaction written all over his face. In that moment as his jaw stung slightly and Antoine's insufferable grin floated in front of him, all Porthos could feel was the united outrage of the men in his corner, the Musketeers.

Porthos grinned at Antoine, the fire of battle bright in his eyes as he raised his fists and approached the former Musketeer cadet. Antoine had his fists raised in answer. He threw two punches, which Porthos dodged easily, though the third hit him in the ribs. Porthos barely reacted. Taking a breath Porthos began his own attack delivering two solid jabs to the man's ribs, accompanied by a keen hit to the jaw that had Antoine careening away.

Porthos shook out his hand and grinned at the man, gesturing for him to launch his next attack. Realizing he was being mocked, Antoine surged with anger. He charged Porthos, delivering punches with his fists, all of which Porthos blocked, and responded with another strike at the man. A collective groan went up from the Red Guards as Porthos' fist made contact with Antoine's nose. An audible crunch was heard as blood began to pour down his face.

Porthos stepped back to allow the man to recover.

"This can all be over if you surrender," Porthos muttered.

Antoine spat at Porthos' feet and wiped the blood from his nose. "As if I'd ever surrender to someone like you. You're worthless. You belong on the streets. I'm glad I'm not a musketeer if they're taking your kind," he hissed, his words like venom pouring from between his barred teeth.

He launched himself at Porthos in an attempt to tackle him, but Porthos caught him and cast him to the ground. In a devious move, Antoine reached behind him and threw a fistful of dirt into Porthos' eyes before scrambling back to his feet. Again, the Musketeers howled in outrage.

"Really, Cardinal, that's cheating!" cried the King.

"I don't believe we set out rules for this match your Majesty," the Cardinal replied smugly.

Porthos shook his head and tried to rub the dirt from his eyes. He was met by a hard punch to his gut, which had him doubling over. Antoine took this to his advantage and drilled his elbow down onto Porthos' back. Porthos lurched away at the impact. He spun quickly to face his attacker again, still wiping at the dirt in his eyes.

From the sidelines, Athos had a hand on Aramis' elbow and was trying to restrain both himself and his brother from interfering. As much as they would like to intercede on Porthos' behalf, this was his chance to prove himself to the King. All they could do was watch with bated breath.

Antoine was relishing in his foul play and was showboating for his fellow Red Guards who cheered him on. Porthos waited patiently.

"You're nothing," Antoine hissed as Porthos absorbed blow after blow to his abdomen. "You should crawl back to whatever gutter you came from. Who do you think you are?" he said as he drew back his fist to deliver a devastating punch to Porthos' face.

The punch, however, never came.

As Antoine let his fist fly, Porthos reacted faster than a man his size should have been capable. Like lighting, Porthos' own hand grabbed the fist from the air. Antoine's eyes widened as Porthos' hand engulfed his and he howled when with a quick turn of his wrist, Porthos dislocated the man's elbow so his right arm hung uselessly at his side. Antoine fell back, clutching his arm to his chest, whimpering.

Glowering at the man who stood cowering before him, Porthos grabbed him by the throat and pulled him so they were mere inches apart. His deep voice echoed like thunder. "I'm a musketeer," he growled. "Do you surrender?"

Antoine's eyes' bulged in pain as he nodded and Porthos dropped him at his feet before turning away.

It happened in an instant when Porthos' back was turned – Antoine glared at Porthos, then leapt back to his feet drawing a blade he had hidden in his boot with his left hand.

"Porthos!" cried Aramis as the blade flashed in the sunlight.

Porthos spun on the spot.

His right forearm came up to block the blade in his attacker's hand as his left rose to deliver a devastating uppercut to the man's jaw. Antoine's limp body went sailing backwards, his eyes rolled up into his head as he hit the ground nearly ten paces from where Porthos stood panting. Antoine was breathing, but there was no question he was out cold.

The group of watching musketeers erupted into applause as the Red Guards dragged Antoine's body from the pitch.

"Well done Porthos!" Louis cried, bringing the cheers of the Musketeers to an end. "It's clear that yours is a talent that few should dare challenge. You fought with honour and with heart today. Let us hope you only continue to do so," he said. "Kneel," the King commanded as he descended from his dais.

Porthos knelt on the trampled dirt of the sparring pitch. Treville stood behind him with Aramis and Athos on either side.

"For your superior talents as a pugilist, you have earned your commission. For your service to me in my infantry, you have earned your commission. For your dedication to the regiment and your brothers within it, you have earned your commission. But most of all, Porthos, for your strength and your determined heart, you have earned your commission. I am not ignorant to the strife of my people, and I know just how long and hard of a fight you must have had to endure to be so recognized by my Captain and his men. I would be honoured to have you in my service among my elite Musketeers," said the King, as he drew his rapier.

Placing the blade on Porthos' right shoulder he said, "Porthos du Vallon, do you pledge yourself to my service as one of my Musketeers? Do you swear to obey my orders, to live and serve at my will? Do you pledge to uphold the honour of this regiment knowing that as one of my Musketeers you are representative of your King and Country? Do you swear to live and die alongside your brothers-in-arms in service to France, and to your King?"

"Yes sire. I swear," said Porthos earnestly.

"Then rise, Porthos du Vallon, as a member of the Musketeers."

oooooooooooooooooooo

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_**A/N: And there you have it! How Porthos fought/earned/won his commission and how a tragedy forged the bonds of legend.**_

_**Thank you so much for reading and reviewing this story. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. This story marks my one-year anniversary of writing for this amazing community. It was a long one, so I value, like Porthos, your patience and support throughout this journey. Cheers!**_


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